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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


PARIS 

THE  MAGIC  CITY  BY  THE  SEINE 


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PARIS 

The  Magic  City  by  the  Seine 


BY 


GERTRUDE  HAUCK  VONNE 


THE  NEALE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

440    FOURTH    AVENUE,    NEW   YORK 

MCMXVIII 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
The  Neale  Publishing  Company 


DEDICATED    TO    THE    FRENCH    PEOPLE 

AND  TO 

THE   AMERICAN    SOLDIERS 


i  91 0530 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Preface         9 

CHAPTER 

I.    From  Brussels  to  Paris.    First  Impressions        .  15 

II.     The  Moulin  Rouge.     Other  Diversions    .        .  26 

III.  The   Morgue.     Parisian    "Cabbies."     The    Arc 

De  Triomphe.     The  Bois  De  Boulogne        .  33 

IV.  Paris  by  Moonlight.     A  Students'  Cafe    .        .  42 
V.     Memories  of  Napoleon.     Hotel   Des    Invalides  47 

VI.    A   Trip  to   Suresnes.     Souvenirs  of   Voltaire. 

Table   Manners 57 

VII.    The  Luxembourg  Gardens.     Free  Amusements. 

Workmen 67 

VIII.    The  Venus  of  Milo.    The  Louvre      ...  74 

IX.    The  Bourse.     A  Rainy  Day        ....  84 
X.    En   Pension.     Bathing  in  Paris.     The  Julien 

Atelier.     Nursemaids 87 

XL     L'Ile  De  La  Cite.      The  Conciergerie.     Sainte 

Chapelle.     Notre  Dame 101 

XII.    Old  Parisian  Streets.     Jean  Valjean        .        .116 

XIII.  The  Pantheon.     Voltaire's  Funeral  .        .        .  128 

XIV.  Church    of    Saint    Severin.      Saint    Gervais. 

Other    Churches.      The    Madeleine.      The 

Markets 132 

XV.    A    Musicale.      French     Friendliness.      Anec- 
dotes       151 

XVI.     Cafe-Concerts.    Cab  Horses.    Paris  Crowds      .  157 

XVII.     The  Tomb   of  Marie   Bashkirtseff    .        .        .  163 

XVIII.    The  Luxembourg  Gallery 171 

XIX.    Picnicking  in  the  Bois  De  Boulogne.     French 

Customs 176 

XX.     Art-Student    Life.      £cole    Des    Beaux    Arts. 

Sevres.     Saint  Cloud 181 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XXI.    The    Sorbonne.      A    Visit   to    the    Jardin    Des 

Plantes 

XXII.    The  Mona  Lisa.    The  Message  of  Leonardo  Da 
Vinci.    The  Paintings  in  the  Louvre     . 

XXIII.  Saint  Germain-L'Auxerrois.     The   Gardens  of 

the  Tuileries.     The   Gobelin   Industry 

XXIV.  Church  of  the   Sacred   Heart.     Buttes-Chau- 

MONT.       MONTMARTRE.      PERE-LACHAISE 

XXV.    A   Sunday  Jaunt  in  the  Environs.     An   Old- 
World  Inn.     Malmaison 

XXVI.    Versailles 

XXVI I.     The  Two  Trianons 

XXVIII.    The  Humbert  Affair 

XXIX.     Notre  Dame  De  Consolation.     The  Musee  De 

Cluny.     French  Women.    The  Chatelet 
XXX.     Window  Shopping.    Kid  Gloves  and  Mobs.    The 
Church  Schools  and  the  Government  . 

XXXI.     French  Hospitality.     Chatou      .... 

XXXII.  Life  in  a  French  Home.  Church  Affairs. 
Charenton.  The  Bois  De  Vincennes.  Choos- 
ing a  Gown 

XXXIII.  The  Grand  Opera.     Le  Theatre  Francois 

XXXIV.  The  Humbert  Auction.     Military  Mass  at  Les 

Invalides.     Meudon.     St.  Germain 

XXXV.     Cafe  Du  Neant.     Other  Cafes 
XXXVI.     The   Palais  Royal.     Fairs.     The   Races.     The 
French  "Fourth  of  July" 

XXXVII.     Musee   Carnavalet 

XXXVIII.    The    Salon.      Church    of    Saint 
Paul.      National    Library 

XXXIX.     Saint   Denis.      Fontainebleau 


Vincent    De 


PAGE 

189 

192 

214 

220 

240 
247 
257 
262 

265 

274 

283 

289 
297 

305 

312 

325 
333 

340 
344 


PREFACE 

My  thoughts  were  the  farthest  possible  from  war 
when  I  was  last  in  Paris,  shortly  before  the  war  was 
declared.  Had  I  had  an  inkling  of  the  fate  that 
was  even  then  in  preparation  for  humanity,  I  would 
have  looked  at  life  there  from  a  different  angle,  and 
would  have  written  my  book  from  that  angle.  But 
I  had  no  such  knowledge.     Who  had? 

During  the  three  years  that  I  spent  in  Paris  the 
greater  part  of  my  time  was  devoted  to  viewing  the 
beautiful  things  to  be  seen  in  that  wonderful  city, — 
the  exquisite  works  of  art,  the  churches,  the  the- 
aters, and  all  the  splendid  works  produced  by  the 
hand  of  man.  These  things  were  all  seen  in  the  time 
of  peace;  this  book  was  written  in  time  of  peace; 
hence  the  spirit  of  war  is  far  removed  from  its  pages. 

There  were  other  things  to  be  seen  in  Paris.  Per- 
haps there  is  a  disagreeable  side  to  life  even  in  glori- 
ous France;  but  I  felt  that  I,  a  stranger,  had  no 
right  to  seek  it  out  and  bring  it  back  with  me  to  dole 
out  to  my  friends.  Hence  there  is  very  little  of  the 
disagreeable  to  be  encountered  in  my  book. 

My  book  concerns  those  things  of  history,  of  art, 
of  beauty,  that  are  of  interest  to  every  intelligent 
American.  War  is  being  waged  over  there  now, — 
fearful  war,  full  of  terrible  deeds.     But  France  is 

9 


io  PREFACE 

France,     and    Paris    is    Paris.      They    have    not 
changed, — only  conditions  have. 

Our  men  are  going  over  to  France  by  the  thou- 
sands,— are  going  valiantly  into  the  conflict.  Know- 
ing what  has  already  taken  place  at  the  front,  they 
would  be  more  than  human  not  to  shrink  inwardly 
and  momentarily  from  that  which  they  are  about 
to  face. 

But  our  brave  men,  even  with  that  momentary 
shrinking,  appreciate  to  the  fullest  extent  the  mean- 
ing of  liberty,  democracy  and  "My  Country";  and 
in  answer  to  the  world's  call,  they  go!  They  go 
that  our  friends  and  brothers  across  the  sea  may 
also  come  to  have  the  same  appreciation  of  the 
meaning  of  liberty  and  democracy  as  have  we,  but 
we  assume  that  they  will  come  back  to  us  once  again. 
Most  of  them  will, — very  likely. 

Immediately  upon  leaving  the  shores  of  America 
our  men  will  plunge  into  quite  a  different  atmos- 
phere. The  first  feeling  of  regret  over,  eagerly  will 
their  minds  travel  the  leagues  that  lie  between  these 
shores  and  the  fascinating  land  of  France.  The  very 
name  fascinates. 

What  is  the  fascination  of  France, — of  Paris? 
We  all  love  them,  yet  we  seem  unable  to  explain  our 
attachment. 

Some  knowledge  of  France,  of  how  the  French 
people  live,  of  their  religious  ideas,  their  amuse- 
ments, cannot  fail  to  be  of  interest  to  those  who  are 
about  to  set  out  for  that  land.  In  this  world  there 
are  things  infinitely  more  beautiful  than  the  acquisi- 


PREFACE  1 1 

tion  of  dollars  or  the  pursuit  of  those  things  repre- 
sented by  dollars. 

A  visit  to  France  might  easily  be  considered  one  of 
those  things,  and  let  us  hope  that  that  is  what  their 
going  will  mean  to  most  of  our  men :  merely  a  visit 
to  France. 

They  are  going,  let  us  hope,  to  Paris,  too.  Not 
alone  are  they  going  to  fight  but  to  see  and  learn 
all  they  possibly  can  of  that  wonderful  life  that 
through  ages  has  pulsated  on  French  soil.  Only  the 
man  who  finds  pleasure  in  the  works  of  man  can  find 
pleasure  in  man  himself.  Man  is  wonderful!  And 
wonderful  are  the  works  of  man !  Life  in  France  is 
itself  a  work  of  art;  there  is  nothing  in  the  world 
finer. 

What  a  privilege  for  our  men !  Thousands  and 
thousands  of  them  are  going  over, — men  who  have 
never  been  away  from  their  own  shores;  and  now 
they  are  to  see  France !  What  a  privilege  for  them, 
indeed. 

One  cannot  fail  to  be  impressed  with  the  beauti- 
ful boulevards  of  Paris,  with  its  tree-lined  streets, 
its  historical  churches,  its  art,  its  life.  The  city, 
the  whole  land,  is  filled  with  things  that  are  of  im- 
mense interest  to  humanity,  especially  to  that  portion 
of  it  that  travels  about  in  the  world  with  seeing  eyes 
and  hearts  attuned.  A  glance  at  Notre  Dame,  at 
the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  at  the  Arc  de  Triomphe, 
and  at  a  thousand  other  places,  will  aid  them  to  re- 
construct the  bygone  scenes  of  the  marvelous  his- 
tory of  France.     It  probably  would  not  be  possible 


12  PREFACE 

to  go  to   France, — to  Paris, — and  not  give   some 
thought  to  the  past. 

A  stroll  about  the  ancient  thoroughfares, — many 
of  which  are  soon  to  be  cut  away  and  replaced  by 
new,  modern  boulevards,  avenues,  and  streets, — will 
provide  an  abundance  of  material  for  the  imagina- 
tion of  our  men. 

It  will  be  a  very  difficult  matter  for  men  to  detach 
themselves  sufficiently  from  the  excitement  of  war- 
fare to  appreciate  to  any  great  degree  much  of  what 
is  to  be  seen;  but  I  hope  that  many  of  them  will  im- 
prove the  golden  opportunity  that  is  to  be  given 
them,  because  of  the  pleasure  it  will  be  to  them  in 
the  after  years,  when  they  are  back  once  more  in 
their  own  land. 

There  are  places  in  which  one  glance  will  do  more 
for  the  onlooker  than  any  amount  of  reading  and 
musing  over  books,  and  such  a  place  I  believe  Paris 
to  be. 

In  no  instance  have  I  attempted  to  speak  with 
the  air  of  the  historian,  or  of  one  with  acknowledged 
authority;  but  it  would  be  a  great  pleasure  to  me  if 
I  could  reproduce  in  the  minds  of  our  men  some- 
thing of  the  impressions  I  myself  derived  from  my 
visit  to  the  beautiful  city  of  Paris, — if  I  could  con- 
vey to  them  some  slight  impression  of  the  magnifi- 
cence of  the  city,  of  its  art,  its  intellect,  and  its  pleas- 
ures. 

My  journey  to  Paris  was  started  from  Brussels, 
which  was  then  an  exquisite  city.  To-day  I  cannot 
imagine  how  it  looks. 


PREFACE  13 

Arras,  Amiens,  and  other  places  that  I  have 
slightly  mentioned  have  been  wrecked.  A  great  bat- 
tle has  been  fought  at  Arras  since  those  exquisite, 
peaceful  days  that  I  knew. 

It  is  difficult  for  me  to  imagine  how  things  over 
there  now  look,  but,  at  any  rate,  I  hope  that  what  I 
have  written  in  my  book  may  prove  interesting  to 
many  of  our  men  and  may  be  to  them  the  means  of 
acquiring  considerable  more  knowledge  than  they 
would  otherwise  have  gained.  If  I  have  excited  any 
curiosity  in  their  minds,  this  will  undoubtedly  be  the 
result.  Gertrude  Hauck  Vonne. 


PARIS 


CHAPTER  I 

FROM  BRUSSELS  TO  PARIS.      FIRST  IMPRESSIONS 

I  experienced  a  feeling  of  depression,  if  not  of 
actual  sadness,  at  leaving  beautiful  Brussels,  even 
though,  looming  fairylike  through  the  mists  of  the 
unknown,  the  unseen,  was  Paris — Paris! — where,  it 
is  said,  all  good  Americans  go  when  they  die. 

The  boulevards  of  Brussels  had  never  looked  so 
beautiful  and  inviting  to  us  as  they  did  on  the  morn- 
ing of  our  departure.  But,  it  was  only  a  short  time 
until  we  were  again  in  one  of  the  funny  little  trains, 
speeding  on  our  way  to  Paris. 

Our  train  was  a  "corridor  train,"  and  our  com- 
partment was  upholstered  in  a  soft  shade  of  gray 
cloth ;  and  on  the  backs  of  the  sofalike  seats  were — 
shades  of  grandmother's  parlor! — lace  "tidies," 
crocheted  of  coarse  white  cotton. 

The  train  was  crowded,  and  we  had  only  barely 
enough  room  in  which  to  sit  closely  together, — not 
an  inch  in  which  to  "spread  out." 

We  were  all  in  a  quiet  mood,  and  just  sat  there, 

15 


16  PARIS 

idly  watching  our  fellow-travelers  and  getting  such 
views  of  the  fleeting  landscape  as  we  could. 

There  seemed  to  be  all  kinds  of  people  on  the 
train, — types  entirely  different  from  any  I  had  yet 
seen;  people  who  seemed  to  be  flustered  and  in  a 
hurry;  people  calm  and  polished;  people  who,  like 
ourselves,  did  not  seem  to  care  a  rap  where  they 
were  going. 

On  and  on  we  sped! 

In  a  subconscious  way,  I  was  cognizant  of  all 
my  companions,  but  of  none  of  them  in  any  special 
way,  other  than  to  yield  to  the  strange  thoughts 
concerning  them, — thoughts  only  half  formed, — 
that  flitted  from  time  to  time  through  my  brain: 
speculating  as  to  who  they  were,  whence  they  had 
come,  whither  they  were  going,  and  of  how  strangely 
and  unexpectedly  people  come  into  our  lives.  Here 
was  this  whole  trainful  of  people,  none  of  whom 
I  had  ever  seen  before, — people  with  whom  I  per- 
haps could  not  even  communicate  in  their  own 
tongue,  but  here  they  were,  and  here  was  I,  and  we 
were  all  on  the  road  to  the  wondrous  city. 

After  floating  about  in  a  sea  of  speculative  thought 
for  a  time,  delving  into  the  world  of  art,  and  roam- 
ing far  from  the  things  of  everyday  life,  it  gives  one 
somewhat  of  a  shock  to  suddenly  look  out  and  dis- 
cover, away  off  on  the  horizon,  a  lot  of  smoking  fac- 
tory chimneys  sending  long  columns  of  black  smoke 
spiraling  through  the  clear  sky,  and  to  be  recalled 
to  the  fact  that  Belgium  is  a  manufacturing  country 
as  well  as  a  land  of  art. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  17 

Smoke  and  factories!  Dozens  of  factories  and 
mills!  However,  one  must  not  be  foolish  and  re- 
fuse to  see  these  signs  of  Belgium's  industries,  but 
remember,  as  Huet  says,  that  "It  was  at  all  times  the 
liberal,  money-making  hand  of  the  merchant  and 
manufacturer  which,  in  rivalry  with  the  prince's  and 
prelate's,  smoothed  the  paths  to  the  beautiful."  It 
has  always  been  these  princes  of  the  manufacturing 
world  who  have  made  the  way  for  the  princes  of 
the  paint  brush,  of  architecture,  and  of  all  the  differ- 
ent departments  of  the  art  world.  Business  seems 
to  come  first, — even  in  this  beautiful  country. 

Village  after  village  sped  past  us.  In  passing 
Arras,  all  I  could  think  of  was  that  it  had  been  the 
home  of  the  terrible  Robespierre  when  he  was  only 
a  poor,  struggling  lawyer. 

I  sort  of  woke  up  and  came  to  myself  with  a  start 
when  Amiens  was  called  out.  Amiens?  I  received 
only  a  confused  impression  of  clustered  houses  with 
high,  peaked  roofs,  and  dormer  windows,  over- 
shadowed by  a  huge,  magnificent  Gothic  cathedral. 
Seen  from  the  train,  it  appeared  tremendous,  and 
seemed  to  be  on  a  hill.  It  had  two  huge  unfinished 
towers,  and  a  high,  tapering  fleche  over  the  trans- 
cept;  and  long  after  leaving  Amiens  we  could  see 
that  spire  and  those  towers  floating  through  the  blue 
air,  seemingly  detached  from  the  church  far  down 
below.  It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  anything 
more  beautiful  and  imposing. 

Amiens  seems  to  be  quite  a  town,  and  is  evidently 
a  very  busy  place,  for  I  could  see  the  smoke  curling 


1 8  PARIS 

up  from  many  factories  and  mills  of  one  kind  or 
another.    We  could  see  a  canal,  too,  not  far  away. 

One  thing  that  appeals  to  me  especially  in  con- 
tinental travel  is  that  one  can  see  so  many  beautiful 
and  interesting  things  and  places  from  the  train. 
Around  the  stations,  generally,  everything  is  clean 
and  attractive, — none  of  those  unsightly  things, 
which  sometimes  are  very  disagreeable  to  travelers 
in  our  own  country,  are  to  be  seen. 

Between  Brussels  and  Paris  the  country  seems  to 
be  flat  and  marshy.  Certainly  it  is  marshy  in  Pic- 
ardy;  but, — once  in  a  while, — is  varied  by  lovely 
little  green  hills.  There  are  many  small  towns  and 
tiny  villages, — all  clean  and  picturesque,  so  far  as 
we  could  see  from  the  windows  of  our  train  as  it 
went  rushing  through  this  country  of  Calvin's. 

The  land  all  the  way  seemed  to  be  carefully  culti- 
vated, every  inch  of  it.  There  were  grayish,  squat 
farmhouses  with  red-tiled  roofs,  the  outbuildings 
nearly  always  being  situated  very  close  to  the  farm- 
houses, sometimes,  apparently,  all  under  one  enor- 
mous spreading  roof.  Everything  had  a  very  sub- 
stantial look, — nothing  flimsy  about  these  houses. 

We  saw  some  women  walking  along  a  white,  wind- 
ing roadway  lined  with  tall,  straight  poplars,  and 
they  had  on  "sabots," — a  wooden  shoe  entirely  dif- 
ferent from  the  Dutch  shoe.  These  sabots  have  no 
backs,  but  rather  high  heels.  The  wearer  thrusts 
the  feet  in,  and  starts  off,  careening,  with  a  clickety- 
click.     The  Dutch   shoe  makes  a  chickety -cluck, — 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  19 

quite  a  different  sound, — a  much  more  vacuous 
sound. 

Once  we  saw  an  old,  old  woman  trudging  along 
the  road,  seemingly  weighed  down  with  brush  and 
a  great  basket  of  things,  her  sabots  clicking  as  she 
went, — the  brush  under  one  arm,  the  basket  on  the 
other. 

Then,  once  in  a  while,  we  would  catch  fleeting 
glimpses  of  silent,  lonely-looking  roads,  winding  and 
twisting  through  clumps  of  tall,  shadowy,  spreading 
trees. 

Once  we  saw  a  peasant  woman  in  a  small  cart, 
to  which  were  hitched  two  large,  brownish  dogs. 
Poor  doggies!  They  do  not  find  life  so  easy  for 
them  over  here.  I  do  not  like  to  see  dogs  at  work; 
they  should  never  have  to  do  anything  more  than 
bark.  Dogs  do  not  seem  to  bark  so  much  over  here ; 
they  are  probably  too  tired  after  a  long  day's  work 
to  bark  much  about  it.  I  am  not  sure  of  this, — only 
it  seems  so  to  me. 

Once  in  a  while  we  caught  a  fleeting  glimpse  of 
the  guardsmen  at  the  grade-crossings,  but  they  were 
not  men — they  were  women.  They  stood  there,  like 
soldiers  on  dress  parade,  with  head  erect,  grasping 
a  small  red  flag  in  one  hand  and  a  small  brass  horn 
in  the  other.  I  suppose  they  blow  the  horn,  but  we 
could  not  have  heard  it  if  they  had,  because  of 
the  noise  of  the  rushing  train.  Talk  about  women's 
rights!  They  seem  to  have  them  here, — so  far  as 
getting  out  and  earning  a  living  is  concerned.  And, 
really,  that  is  a  rather  nice  occupation  for  a  woman, 


20  PARIS 

as  it  evidently  requires  no  hard  work,  although  I 
have  no  idea  what  the  requirements  actually  are. 

Then,  after  a  time,  the  houses  became  more  and 
more  numerous,  the  country  more  thickly  built  up, 
and — we  had  arrived!  We  were  in  Paris, — at  the 
Gare  du  Nord!  This  was  a  very  large  station,  and 
numbers  of  trains  were  standing  on  the  various 
tracks  beyond  ours. 

As  we  alighted  from  the  train,  a  porter  came  and 
took  our  luggage,  asked  if  there  were  any  trunks, 
and  upon  our  replying  in  the  negative,  he  led  the 
way  out  to  an  exit.  An  officer  stationed  there  then 
asked  if  we  had  anything  to  declare, — that  is,  any- 
thing dutiable, — and  accepted  our  word  for  it  that 
we  had  not.  Not  a  package  was  opened !  And  in  a 
few  minutes,  we  were  comfortably  seated  in  a  nice, 
roomy  carriage,  bowling  along  on  our  way. 

Wide  streets  lined  with  trees  stretched  out  in  all 
directions;  houses,  tall  and  gray,  by  the  thousand; 
cafes,  with  their  tables  and  chairs  set  hospitably  out 
on  the  sidewalks,  greeted  us  on  every  side.  We 
passed  carriages  upon  carriages  filled  with  cheerful- 
looking  occupants.  The  people  sauntering  along  the 
streets  all  looked  cheerful, — everything  looked 
bright  and  gay,  and  we  all  began  at  once  to  plan  for 
unlimited  prowls.  Every  one  seemed  to  go  along 
with  a  swinging  gait,  but  not  in  a  hurried  way. 

Finally  we  came  to  a  beautiful  tree-lined  street, 
named  the  "Boulevard  des  Capucines."  There  we 
stopped, — at  a  large,  rather  imposing  building, 
called  the  Grand  Hotel,  and  soon  found  ourselves 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  21 

installed  in  two  very  attractive  rooms,  from  the  win- 
dows of  which  we  could  look  directly  out  onto  the 
Grand  Opera  House,  and  down  on  the  arteries  of 
streets  and  boulevards  stretching  out  in  many  direc- 
tions. This  was  an  enormous  hotel,  beautifully  fur- 
nished and  equipped  with  all  those  things  so  neces- 
sary to  the  comfort  of  the  present-day  traveler;  but 
I  did  not  like  the  new  and  modern  tone  of  it  so  well 
as  that  of  those  lovely,  old-world  hotels  in  the  Neth- 
erlands.    Mr.  Whatley  said: 

"Oh !  I  say,  girls !  This  is  quite  like !" 

And  he  straightway  ordered  up  a  whiskey  and 
soda. 

We  settled  ourselves  in  our  rooms,  looked  over 
every  blessed  piece  of  furniture  in  them,  felt  the 
quality  of  our  heavy  red  velvet  curtains,  and  then 
started  out  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  town. 

I  proposed  the  opera  the  first  thing,  as  all 
strangers  do,  I  am  told;  but  Mr.  Whatley  did  not 
assent  at  all.     He  said: 

"What  rotl  No!  by  all  means  let  us  go  to  the 
Moulin  Rouge!  The  opera  is  always  there;  let  it 
wait  a  while.    Let  us  go  and  see  real  life!" 

Of  course !     Let  us  go ! 

One  author  says  that  every  American  looks  up 
the  Moulin  Rouge  the  first  thing,  but  I  call  upon 
the  gods  to  bear  witness  that  I  went  at  the  special 
invitation  of  an  Englishman. 

The  Moulin  Rouge !  Pictures,  sculpture,  music, 
opera, — it  was  all  there,  just  waiting  for  us!  But — 
we  went  to  the  Moulin  Rouge! 


22  PARIS 

I  had  always  thought  so  much  about  what  I  would 
do  if  I  ever  got  to  Paris:  of  the  Venus  de  Milo,  of 
Grand  Opera,  of  heaven  knows  what  all !  and  here 
I  was,  going,  first  thing,  to  the  Moulin  Rouge !  But 
one  might  just  as  well  accept  what  the  gods  provide 
when  he  has  plenty  of  time  to  spend  on  his  whims. 

The  dinner  that  evening  was  good,  and  extremely 
amusing;  but  the  great,  brilliantly  illuminated  din- 
ing-room lacked  the  cozy,  friendly  atmosphere  of  the 
other  ones  where  we  had  been,  looking,  in  its  glitter- 
ing magnificence  more  like  an  addition  to  the  Grand 
Opera  House  than  anything  else. 

The  women  nearly  all  wore  beautiful  evening 
gowns  and  a  great  deal  of  sparkling  jewelry.  I 
noticed  that  soft,  clinging  black  stuffs  were  the  choice 
of  many  of  them.  Among  all  the  nations  of  the 
earth  there  assembled,  I  think  there  were  numbers 
of  English  and  Americans,  but  of  this  I  am  not  posi- 
tive, as  those  who  looked  American  were  too  far 
away  for  us  to  hear  their  voices.  And  heavens! 
These  men,  too,  tucked  their  napkins  under  their 
chins ! 

Pierre  de  Coulevain  is  inclined  to  lay  this  care- 
lessness in  table  manners  upon  the  shoulders  of  the 
French  wet  nurse,  and  the  nurses  of  the  older  chil- 
dren as  well.     She  says: 

For  the  early  education  of  our  sons  and  daughters,  that  educa- 
tion of  the  body  and  of  the  dawning  mind,  on  which  their  health 
and  often  their  happiness  and  their  future  depend,  we  engage,  as 
wet  nurses,  uncultivated  peasant  women,  who  have  only  hitherto 
brought  up  calves  and  pigs,  and  very  often  have  done  that  very 
badly.  .  .  .  We  insist  upon  these  peasant  women  being  clean,  cer- 
tainly;   we   provide   them   with   linen,   with   well-cut   dresses,   with 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  23 

very  fine  cloaks,  and  with  ribbon  ruches  as  wide  as  possible  to 
wear  on  their  heads,  as  all  that  is  supposed  to  do  credit  to  the 
house;  but  who  troubles  about  the  rest? 

And  yet  we  know  at  present  what  the  rest  means!  .  .  .  We 
cannot  ignore  the  fact  that  the  coarse  pictures  and  the  wrong 
ideas  which  are  in  the  nurse's  mind  will  pass  into  the  mind  of 
the  nursling,  will  be  imprinted  on  the  virgin  cells  of  its  brain, 
and  will  leave  their  indestructible  germs  there. 

Besides  this,  these  peasant  women  have  no  refinement,  no  notion 
of  decency  and  of  physical  cleanliness.  They  know  nothing  of 
the  most  elementary  laws  of  health,  of  the  value  of  time  or  even 
of  any  kind  of  discipline.  They  cannot  even  respect  childhood. 
In  the  Champs  Elysees,  in  the  Tuileries  Gardens,  and  everywhere 
else,  they  give  objectionable  exhibitions  of  themselves  and  of  the 
children  in  their  care,  to  the  amazement  and  horror  of  foreigners. 
.  .  .  They  do  not  know  how  to  eat  properly,  how  to  handle  their 
knives  and  forks,  and  the  children's  meal  with  them  is  a  sickening 
sight 

This  is  how  it  comes  about  that  we  see  men  in  high  social  posi- 
tions betray  a  lack  of  education  at  table  that  places  them  at  once 
in  a  lower  rank  of  society.  A  man  who  eats  like  a  peasant  may 
be  superior  to  another  who  eats  like  a  civilized  being,  but  he  will 
never  be  the   equal   of  the   latter. 

The  difference  in  early  education  separates  individuals  more 
than  the  difference  in  culture.  .  .  .  We  may  thank  our  nurses, 
with  their  primitive  language  and  their  unsterilized  minds,  for 
that  vein  of  coarseness  in  us  which  amazes  foreigners. 

It  had  not  impressed  me  as  "coarse"  especially, 
but  amusing.  To  see  a  lot  of  grown-up  men  tuck 
napkins  under  their  chins  before  commencing  a  meal 
is,  to  say  the  least,  amusing. 

Soon  after  dinner,  we  went  out.  Mr.  Whatley 
said  it  was  "beastly  rot  to  sit  around  hotel  salons 
and  look  at  persons  whom  no  one  knows,"  so  out  we 
went.  On  the  ground  floor  of  our  own  hotel  we 
found  a  very  attractive  cafe,  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix,  so 
we  sat  down  here  for  a  while. 

There  were  numbers  of  small,  round  tables  on 
the  sidewalk,  with  chairs  for  two  or  three  persons 


24  PARIS 

at  each  table.  I  notice  in  Paris  that  more  often 
than  not  there  are  three  or  four  chairs  at  the  tables 
instead  of  just  two,  as  the  French  are  a  gregarious 
people  and  love  to  go  out  in  groups,  rather  than  by 
twos,  as  we  do. 

We  were  delighted  to  be  out  in  the  street,  as  it 
were,  and  to  see  the  gay-looking,  cheerful  people  at 
such  close  range.  We  each  had  a  glass  of  foaming 
champagne  for  about  twenty  cents  apiece,  while  Mr. 
Whatley  ordered  his  dearly-beloved  "whiskey-and- 
soda."  One  can  buy  champagne  on  draft  in  Paris, 
as  we  do  beer  in  America. 

We  sat  there  for  a  long  time,  watching  the  ever- 
moving  panorama :  carriages  by  the  hundreds,  peo- 
ple by  the  hundreds  moving  along  in  the  soft,  purple 
evening  light, — all  just  as  I  had  read  and  dreamed 
of.  Yes,  there  they  were!  All  those  people  that 
had  been  written  of  for  hundreds  of  years !  I  seemed 
to  know  them  all.  I  dare  say  that  the  evening  crowds 
of  to-day  do  not  look  materially  different  from  the 
crowds  that  walked  along  these  streets  two  hundred 
years  ago :  a  mere  matter  of  change  in  style  of  dress, 
that  is  all. 

After  people  finish  dinner  they  come  out  to  the 
cafes  on  the  boulevards  for  a  small  coffee  and  a 
sweet  of  some  kind.  I  am  told  that  many  families 
prepare  no  desserts  at  all  for  dinner,  preferring  in- 
stead to  go  to  a  boulevard  cafe  and  have  a  pastry 
and  a  small  coffee,  which  is  just  as  cheap  as  to  pre- 
pare them  at  home,  and  includes,  besides,  music  and 
infinite  amusement  and  entertainment.     And  what  is 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  25 

better  in  life  than  relaxation  and  amusement  after  a 
day's  work?     The  French  seem  to  understand  this. 

I  saw  many,  many  men  (no  women)  drinking  ab- 
sinthe. It  was  served  in  a  tall,  slender  goblet,  a 
small  portion  of  the  green  liqueur  in  the  bottom. 
Over  the  top  they  laid  a  small  silver  fork,  upon 
which  they  very  carefully  placed  a  cube  of  sugar. 
From  time  to  time,  they  would  then  drop  a  few 
drops  of  iced-water,  letting  it  trickle  through,  not 
drinking  until  all  the  sugar  had  been  dissolved. 
Absinthe  was  among  the  things  that  I  refused  to 
investigate.  I  had  read  "Wormwood," — that  was 
enough  for  me! — and  I  feared  to  take  any  risk. 

We  sat  there  for  a  long  time,  seldom  speaking. 
Mr.  Whatley  was  happy  and  completely  satisfied 
with  his  whiskey-and-soda,  and  we,  Miss  Whatley 
and  I,  intensely  interested  in  what  we  saw,  although 
the  Whatleys  had  made  many  previous  visits  to 
Paris.  As  for  me,  I  was  in  a  new  world.  The  hour 
was  full  of  magic,  and  I  seemed  to  be  able  to  hit 
upon  nothing  more  worthy  the  occasion  than  silence. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    MOULIN    ROUGE.       OTHER    DIVERSIONS 

By-and-by  we  hailed  a  passing  carriage  and  start- 
ed for  the  Moulin  Rouge.  We  went  through  many, 
many  streets,  all  brightly  illuminated;  rows  of  tall, 
dark  houses  stood  side  by  side,  all  along  the 
thoroughfares,  built  right  up  against  each  other, — 
no  lawns,  seldom  any  lights  in  the  upper  stories. 
They  were  much  like  the  houses  in  Brussels :  long, 
narrow,  window-like  doors  opening  on  to  the  iron 
balconies  that  extended  along  their  entire  fronts. 
Many  of  them  were  very  tall, — several  stories  above 
the  streets, — and  nearly  all  had  steep  Mansard 
roofs. 

We  came  finally  to  the  Boulevard  Clichy,  which 
fairly  seethed  with  life:  people  coming  and  going, 
lights  everywhere,  and  occasional  bursts  of  lively 
music  delighted  our  listening  ears  as  some  door 
would  open  along  the  street, — cafes  of  one  kind  or 
another,  I  suppose. 

All  kinds  of  flaring  electric  signs  in  gay  combina- 
tions of  colors  could  be  seen  all  along  the  street. 
At  last,  we  came  to  the  "Red  Mill"  on  the  Place 
Blanche,  which  industriously  proclaimed  its  location 
by  flinging  its  great  arms,  outlined  with  red  electric 
lights,  over  the  wide  entrance. 

26 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  27 

We  went  in.  There  were  great  crowds  of  people, 
men  and  women;  there  was  a  wide  stairway, — there 
were  waving  palms  in  tubs  or  pots;  there  was  a 
vaudeville  show;  there  were  refreshment  parlors  (I 
scarcely  know  what  else  to  call  them)  ;  there  was 
dancing;  there  was  a  good-sized  garden  in  the  rear, 
with  seats  and  graveled  walks,  and  there  were  high 
buildings  in  the  rear  of  the  garden.  There  were 
beautiful  women  most  wonderfully  gowned, — ex- 
quisite sinners,  if  what  I  was  told  is  true.  They 
looked  like  duchesses,  at  the  very  least. 

We  took  seats  and  looked  on  at  the  show,  very 
few  words  of  which  did  we  understand.  A  lovely 
young  woman,  in  wonderfully  abbreviated,  fluffy- 
ruffles  clothing,  came  out  and  sang  something  with 
a  chorus  of  "Oh,  oh,  oh,  oh,  oh!"  and  did  tre- 
mendous things  with  her  eyes,  whereupon  all  the 
men  laughed  and  looked  in  a  pleased  way  at  one  an- 
other, and  then  applauded  vociferously.  Her  danc- 
ing was  not  so  much  "dancing"  as  it  was  an  exhibi- 
tion of  fancy  steps  and  kicks. 

We  walked  about,  in  the  garden  and  through  the 
various  rooms  and  halls,  watching  the  people,  and 
seeing  many  curious  little  things  that  might  have 
passed  unnoticed  in  other  surroundings. 

In  a  large  hall,  or  ball-room,  later  in  the  evening 
the  floor  was  cleared,  and  eight  young  women  took 
the  center,  and  proceeded  to  perform.  They  had 
on  very  ordinary,  dark-colored  dresses  and  large 
black  hats  with  waving  plumes,  and  looked  tame 
enough.     But  wait!     In  a  moment  the  music  struck 


28  PARIS 

up  a  suggestive  air,  and  they  began.  They  turned, 
with  a  curtsey,  and  looked  at  each  other,  and  then, 
very  unexpectedly  to  me  at  least,  they  kicked, — oh, 
very,  very  high !  And  what  a  sudden  revelation ! 
Lingerie  by  the  yard !  Lace  and  ribbons, — pink  and 
blue, — run  through  everything,  and  black  silk  stock- 
ings and  high-heeled  pointed-toe  slippers  capped  the 
climax.  They  turned  and  faced  the  audience,  then 
kicked;  they  turned  again  and  faced  each  other,  and 
then  kicked,  seemingly  direct  at  each  other's  noses; 
they  turned  again  to  the  audience,  their  eyes  turned 
to  the  ceiling,  as  if  seeking  a  convenient  spot  upon 
which  to  land  their  next  endeavor,  and  kicked;  they 
looked  at  the  glowing  chandeliers,  aimed  well,  and 
then, — kicked;  they  kicked  at  everything  in  sight; 
they  stuck  their  feet  straight  up  into  the  air,  with 
a  final  kick,  and  then? — Well!  we  had  seen  the  won- 
derful professional  dancers  of  the  Moulin  Rouge. 

I  did  not  care  especially  for  that  exhibition  as 
there  are  other  forms  of  dancing  that  seem  more 
graceful,  to  my  mind,  but  they  all  seemed  to  be  in 
such  a  joyous  and  frolicsome  mood,  and  to  so  thor- 
oughly enjoy  "kicking,"  that  one  could  not  fail  to 
sympathize. 

After  a  time  Miss  Whatley  and  I  sat  down,  at 
one  of  the  numerous  tables  behind  the  railing,  for 
an  ice  and  a  few  minutes'  quiet,  while  Mr.  Whatley 
announced  that  he  would  "just  take  a  look  around 
for  a  few  minutes,"  and  we  saw  him  go, — our  ex- 
quisitely dressed  Englishman, — out  into  the  crowd 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  29 

that  was  promenading  continually  back  and  forth  be- 
fore us. 

After  a  bit  two  young  women  came  up  to  him,  one 
on  each  side,  each  taking  an  arm,  and  they  began 
talking  and  smiling,  and  casting  roguish  glances  up 
into  his  dazed-looking  eyes.  He  looked  first  at  one, 
then  at  the  other, — then  he  looked  despairingly  over 
to  where  we  were  sitting.  I  looked  at  my  companion, 
she  looked  at  me,  then — Horrors!  We  both 
laughed.  That  dear  man  was  always  digging  such 
deep  pits  for  himself!  He  should  have  remained 
with  us. 

Those  girls'  eyes  followed  his,  and  they  lighted 
on  us,  and  saw  our  amusement  at  his  predicament. 
Did  they  desist  and  beat  a  retreat?  Not  at  all! 
They  smiled  and  ogled  him  all  the  more,  andJheld  on 
still  tighter  to  his  black-coated  arms.  One  naughty 
girl  reached  up  and  chucked  him  under  his  chin,  and 
twittered  and  cooed.  The  perspiration  stood  out  all 
over  Mr.  Whatley's  forehead,  and  finally  he  broke 
loose  and  ran, — actually  and  positively  ran  ! — to 
where  we  were  seated,  and  stepped  right  over  the 
railing,  never  stopping  until  he  reached  us  and 
safety.  I  laughed;  we  all  laughed.  Those  girls 
made  a  little  moue  at  him  and  grinned  at  us,  and 
went  on  as  unconcerned  as  could  be.  He  puffed 
and  snorted,  and  catching  his  breath,  finally  ejacu- 
lated: 

"The  baggages!  The  baggages!  Oh,  I  say,  my 
dear!     The  abominable  little  baggages!     Really!" 

He  stayed  close  by  us  during  the  remainder  of 


30  PARIS 

the  evening.    He  never  took  another  "look  around." 

In  the  ball-room  waltzing  was  in  progress  (I 
didn't  notice  any  other  dance  at  all).  The  dancers 
went  round  and  round,  without  reversing  once,  until 
it  made  me  dizzy  just  to  look  at  them.  How  do 
they  manage  to  keep  going  for  so  long  a  time,  with- 
out reversing?  However,  it  never  seemed  to  occur 
to  them  to  do  so. 

We  remained  until  midnight,  and  then, — we  didn't 
go  home.  Oh,  no!  We  went  to  what  Mr.  Whatley 
called  a  "very  naughty"  cafe.  It  was  the  Olympia 
or  Olympic, — something  like  that.  He  said  "nice" 
people  did  not  go  there,  but  that  he  wanted  us  to 
see  it, — that  when  people  left  the  Moulin  Rouge  they 
generally  went  there  for  the  wind-up  of  the  night's 
amusements.     So  we  went  too. 

It  was  not  far  from  our  hotel,  on  one  of  the 
boulevards,  but  I  do  not  know  exactly  where.  It 
was  down-stairs, — that  is,  we  went  down  a  number 
of  steps  from  the  street,  and  into  a  large,  brightly 
lighted  place.  There  were  rows  of  small  boxes,  di- 
vided from  one  another  by  a  wooden  partition  about 
four  or  five  feet  high,  so  that  when  standing,  one 
could  see  over  it  into  the  next  compartment. 

In  each  was  a  well-appointed  table  and  several 
chairs.  Lighted  electric  lamps,  shaded  and  subdued 
by  pretty  silk  covers,  were  in  the  center  of  each  table, 
and  over  all  hovered  the  sound  of  music,  produced 
by  an  orchestra  stationed  somewhere  out  of  the 
range  of  our  vision.  I  never  knew  just  where  that 
orchestra  was  stationed. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  31 

I  saw  nothing  at  all  that  could  displease  any  one, 
or  that  seemed  in  any  way  different  from  any  other 
well-appointed  cafe, — at  first. 

Among  other  things,  we  ordered  crayfish,  which 
were  served  to  us  in  startling  style.  There  was  a 
sort  of  pyramid  in  the  middle  of  a  large  bowl-like 
dish,  over  which  were  sprawling  the  brilliant  scarlet 
fish,  a  number  lying  in  the  dish  around  the  pyramid, 
served  with  mayonnaise  of  just  the  correct  shade  of 
cream  to  set  off  the  scarlet  of  the  crayfish.  Heavens ! 
Was  this  "light"  refreshment  for  three  persons  or 
for  the  Grand  Army?  However,  when  we  began  on 
them,  they  soon  disappeared,  for  there  was  only  a 
bite  or  two  in  each. 

After  an  hour  or  so,  I  should  say,  several 
women, — beautifully  dressed  women, — left  their 
compartments,  and,  evidently  at  the  invitation  of 
companions,  began  to  dance.  It  was  a  curious  dance, 
long  steps  and  much  swirling  and  swishing.  They 
danced  up  one  side  and  down  the  other,  in  the  aisles 
between  the  long  line  of  compartments.  Every  one 
stepped  to  the  entrance  of  his  own  compartment, 
and  looked  on  with  approval  and  plaudits,  each 
ejaculating  to  the  other  with  raised  eyebrows  and 
twitching  shoulders.  Words  did  not  seem  to  count 
for  much, — it  was  the  eyes  and  shoulders  that  did 
the  work.  The  faster  the  music  the  faster  they 
danced,  and  wound  up  the  performance  with  volu- 
minous sweeps  and  bows,  then  disappeared  into 
their  own  compartments.  Every  one  smiled  and 
applauded.     So  did  we!     Always  do  as  others  do, 


32  PARIS 

and  you  will  always  pass  as  one  of  themselves  and 
escape  any  unwelcome  notice. 

At  half-past  four  in  the  morning  we  returned  to 
our  hotel,  tired  and  glad  of  the  prospect  of  sleep. 
If  anything  very,  very  wicked  had  transpired,  I  did 
not  understand  or  know  it.  The  whole  thing  had 
impressed  me  as  only  a  sort  of  honey-wafer  affair, — 
nothing  serious  at  all;  and  I  had  the  further  impres- 
sion that  there  was,  after  all,  something  extremely 
amiable  about  these  ungodly  ones, — something  gen- 
tle and  pleasing. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  MORGUE.      PARISIAN   "CABBIES."      THE  ARC  DE 
TRIOMPHE.      THE  BOIS  DE  BOULOGNE 

The  next  morning  Miss  Whatley  and  I  had 
breakfast  in  bed.  What  a  joy!  They  brought  to 
us  a  long,  black-handled  silver  pot  of  hot  coffee, 
with  a  strong  mixture  of  chicory,  another  silver  pot 
of  hot  milk  (not  cream),  beautiful  rolls,  sweet  but- 
ter, and  a  pot  of  honey.  And  it  was  all  good, — 
very,  very  good! 

It  was  quite  late  before  we  were  ready  to  begin 
the  day's  enjoyments,  and  we  found  Mr.  Whatley 
up  and  ready  to  pilot  us  around  to  see  some  more 
"life."    O  Mona  Lisa  !    He  took  us  to  the  Morgue ! 

We  got  into  a  carriage  and  started  off  with  a 
flourish,  the  coachman  cracking  his  whip  as  we  went. 
These  fellows  keep  up  a  constant  cracking  of  their 
whips;  it  seems  to  afford  them  amusement. 

We  went  to  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  and  on  down  past 
the  Tuileries  Gardens  filled  with  nursemaids,  per- 
ambulators, and  children;  the  Louvre;  the  Tour  St. 
Jacques,  to  the  Pont  Neuf ;  past  Notre  Dame,  and 
up  to  the  Morgue, — a  small,  dark  building  at  the 
back  of  the  cathedral. 

Many  people  were  going  in,  and  many  were  com- 

33 


34  PARIS 

ing  out, — a  constant  stream.  We  went  in  also,  and, 
for  a  minute,  I  felt  faint;  I  wanted  to  run  away. 
But  after  a  second  I  collected  myself  and  determined 
to  look  and  see, — look  straight  at  all  I  saw, — that 
was  what  I  had  come  to  Europe  for.  I  do  not  like 
the  thought  of  death  at  all,  and  to  contemplate  it  in 
such  heart-rending  guise  is  not  pleasing. 

Behind  a  thick  partition  of  glass,  clean  and  trans- 
parent, were  nine  dead  bodies, — all  that  remained 
of  that  many  persons  who  had  grown  tired  of  the 
struggle  and  had  forcibly  terminated  it.  They  were 
on  slabs  of  marble,  I  think,  slightly  tipped  at  the 
upper  ends  so  as  to  raise  the  head,  thus  enabling  the 
onlookers  to  see  the  subjects  plainly,  and  giving  the 
place  something  of  the  appearance  of  an  amphi- 
theater. 

The  poor,  dead  things !  One  woman,  with  a  dark 
brown  dress  hanging  back  of  her,  had  the  side  of 
her  face  stove  in, — had  evidently  knocked  her  head 
against  some  obstruction  in  the  river,  from  which 
she  had  been  taken,  or — it  might  have  happened 
in  some  more  sinister  way.     Who  knows? 

There  were  several  women,  side  by  side,  on  their 
cold,  damp  slabs.  Several  men,  too,  were  lying 
there,  and  a  young  boy  with  a  blue  shirt.  Poor 
little  boy!  What  had  happened?  One  poor  man 
lay  there  with  his  clothing  in  shreds,  but  nothing  else 
to  throw  any  light  upon  the  mystery.  What  could 
have  driven  nine  people  to  such  desperate  lengths 
in  lovely,  smiling  Paris?  If  we  only  knew,  it  might 
perhaps  fill  volumes. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  35 

Many  persons  stood  by  us,  all  peering  in, — per- 
chance they  were  seeking  some  one?  One  man 
smiled  as  he  stood  looking  in,  and  Mr.  Whatley 
sniffed,  and  muttered:  "Stoopid  ahss!"  We  were 
seeking  no  one,  Heaven  be  praised!  but  we  felt  de- 
pressed, and  went  away  feeling  sad  about  it  all.  One 
of  our  great  poets  has  told  us  about  it  all  in  his  own 
peculiar  way: 

First  came  the   silent  gazers;   next 

A  screen  of  glass  we're  thankful  for; 
Last,   the   sight's   self,    the   sermon's   text, 

The  three  men  who  did  most  abhor 
Their  life  in  Paris  yesterday, 

So  killed  themselves;  and  now  enthroned, 
Each  on   his  copper  couch,   they   lay 

Fronting  me,  waiting  to  be  owned. 
I  thought,   and  think,  their  sin's  atoned. 

Poor  men!  God  made,  and  all  for  that! 
The  reverence  struck  me ;  o'er  each  head 

Religiously  was  hung  its  hat, 
Each  coat  dripped  by  the  owner's  bed, 

Sacred  from  touch:  each  had  his  berth, 
His  boards,  his  proper  place  of  rest, 

Who  last  night  tenanted  on  earth 
Some  arch  where  twelve  such  slept  abreast, — 

Unless  the  plain  asphalte  seemed  best. 

It  was  a  gloomy-looking  place,  and  one  who  has 
once  looked  in  upon  its  quiet,  somber,  secret-laden 
inhabitants,  will  not  soon  forget  it.  I  rather  think, 
however,  that  it  is  a  questionable  thing  to  allow  such 
unrestricted  entrance;  it  could  not  fail  to  be  sugges- 
tive,— to  the  morbidly  inclined,  at  least.  But,  as 
Mr.  Whatley  so  often  said: 

"Once  is  enough,  quite  enough,  my  dears!" 

He  at  once  went  out  and  procured  a  whiskey-and- 


36  PARIS 

soda,  and  upon  reaching  the  hotel  gave  the  coach- 
man such  a  generous  fee  that  the  man  went  whistling 
all  the  way  down  the  boulevard,  and  cracked  his 
whip  until  it  sounded  like  a  pistol.  The  pourboire 
was  too  much,  perhaps,  but  the  cocker  was  so  happy 
that  it  was  worth  it  just  to  hear  him  whistle.  Mr. 
Whatley  always  seemed  to  enjoy  what  he  called  "a 
crack"  with  the  coachmen. 

The  cabmen,  many  of  them  at  least,  wear  white 
"stove-pipes"  and  very  much  faded  blue  suits,  and 
all  look  a  little  sad  and  hungry.  Some  one  has  said 
it  is  "voraciousness"  and  not  hunger,  and  I  most  sin- 
cerely hope  it  is. 

The  luncheon  was  a  continuation  of  the  dinner  of 
the  evening  before, — just  as  elaborate, — and  I  hon- 
estly believe  that  I  ate  half  of  the  things  served.  I 
refused  very  few  dishes;  I  wanted  to  find  out  what 
they  were  and  how  they  tasted.  For  one  thing,  we 
had  parsnips  cooked  with  celery  and  cheese.  It  was 
excellent,  and  I  had  never  heard  of  that  combina- 
tion before.  And  we  had  soup  with  wine  in  it,  and 
they  served  pates  made  of  duck  livers. 

Along  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  we 
ordered  a  beautiful  carriage  (no  fiacre  this  time), 
and  went  jingling  down  the  Avenue  des  Champs 
Elysees  for  a  drive; — past  the  Arc  de  Triomphe, 
into  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne,  to  the  Bois. 
I  felt  that  I  knew  it  at  once,  as  I  had  read  so  much 
of  it;  and  I  must  frankly  admit  that  it  looked  ex- 
tremely like  its  photographs.  How  beautiful !  But 
in   such   a   different   way   from   the    Bosch   at   The 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  37 

Hague.  It  would  be  impossible  to  compare  them, 
although  both  are  so  beautiful,  but  I  loved  the  one 
at  The  Hague  with  a  real  affection. 

The  almost  bewildering  maze  of  highways  and 
bypaths,  crossing  and  re-crossing,  meeting  and  di- 
verging, seemingly  without  any  special  motive  or 
design,  were  literally  covered  with  a  steady  stream 
of  moving  vehicles  of  every  kind  and  description. 
Beautifully  dressed  women  leaned  idly  and  negli- 
gently back  in  magnificent  carriages,  while  the  jin- 
gling of  dangling  chains,  the  click-clack  of  silver- 
studded  harness,  the  clap-clap,  of  countless  hoofs, 
and  the  whinnying  of  motors,  made  a  musical  ac- 
companiment to  the  hum  of  human  voices.  The 
sound  of  so  many  thousands  of  horses'  hoofs  beat- 
ing on  the  soft  wood  of  the  splendidly  paved  thor- 
oughfares, falls  on  the  ear  in  soft,  hollow  thuds 
that  do  not  destroy  but  add  to  the  music  of  the 
kindly  noises.  There  are  noises  that  come  with  a 
shock, — that  give  positive  pain;  but  these  boulevard 
noises  are  musical  and  tranquilizing;  one  begins 
straightway  to  think  of  pattering  rain-drops. 

There  were  hundreds  of  common  fiacres;  there 
were  automobiles;  there  were  motors;  there  were 
bloomer-clad  girls  on  bicycles;  there  were  magnifi- 
cent equipages  of  every  degree  of  elegance.  The 
place  was  filled  with  the  gayety  of  all  nations,  every 
one  looking  pleased,  whether  he  were  or  not. 

Nearly  all  the  bicycle  girls  wore  white  lace  ties 
and  jabots,  which  struck  me  as  rather  a  curious  com- 
bination,— white  lace  ties  and  bloomers!     But  who 


38  PARIS 

would  think  of  questioning  the  taste  of  a  French 
woman? 

We  drove  for  a  long  time,  and  came  at  last  to  a 
cafe  away  back  in  the  woods,  under  the  great  trees, 
— the  Cafe  Cascade.  Long  lines  of  carriages  drove 
up  to  the  entrance,  one  after  the  other.  The  occupants 
of  the  vehicles  would  get  out,  and  the  coachman 
would  drive  on.  Seats  and  tables  were  outside  on 
the  lawn,  under  the  green  of  the  shadowy  trees.  An 
orchestra,  composed  of  men  in  scarlet  coats  and  be- 
gilded  caps,  played  on  the  lawn  in  front  of  the 
cafe. 

We,  too,  took  our  places  at  a  table  not  far  away 
from  the  music,  and  ordered  our  afternoon  tea, — 
the  most  cheerful,  social  function  in  the  world. 
Where  and  how  did  the  English  discover  it? 

Such  a  bright,  cheerful  company  of  people !  We 
listened  to  the  music,  drank  tea,  ate  thin  slices  of 
buttered  bread, — and  observed  our  fellows. 

Not  far  away  was  a  real  cascade, — water  falling 
down  over  a  lot  of  artificially-piled  rocks,  making  a 
musical  ripple  on  the  quiet  air.  Glimpses  of  blue 
sky  could  be  seen  once  in  a  while  through  the  wav- 
ing, rustling  branches  of  the  clean,  green  trees, 
while  the  golden  sunshine  sent  down  long,  shining 
rays  on  to  the  gay  company  below. 

Many  persons  seemed  to  be  acquainted  with  many 
other  persons,  and  visited  back  and  forth,  first  at 
one  table,  then  another.  The  men  seemed  to  be  an 
affable  lot,  and  smiled  a  great  deal,  doffing  hats  right 
and  left. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  39 

We  sat  there  for  a  long  time,  discussing  the  peo- 
ple, the  gowns,  the  manners  of  those  observed. 
There  was  one  woman,  in  a  most  ravishing  costume, 
who  had  shining  golden  hair  that  fairly  glistened 
in  the  sun.  She  was  a  Russian.  There  were  repre- 
sentatives from  all  nations,  either  sitting,  or  ambling 
about  among  the  tables.  It  began  to  grow  shadowy 
through  the  long  vistas  of  trees. 

Driving  on  at  length  with  hundreds  of  others,  we 
keenly  enjoyed  the  deep  silence  to  be  felt  among 
the  rustling  trees.  Each  place  has  its  own  atmos- 
phere, which  sometimes  is  felt  much  more  than 
seen  or  understood. 

There  were  shadowy  stretches  and  splendid  roads, 
and  at  one  point  we  could  catch  glimpses  of  a  per- 
fect sea  of  red-tiled  roofs  across  the  river,  with  deep 
shadows  between,  which  glowed  rich  and  ruddy  in 
the  flood  of  sunbeams  that  was  bathing  it  all  in  a 
mantle  of  gorgeous  amber  and  mauve. 

That  wonderful  Arc  de  Triomphe !  In  the  streams 
of  a  sinking  sun  it  was  beautiful,  and  loomed  over  us 
like  a  colossus,  all  mellow  and  ivory-white. 

I  think  hundreds  of  people  were  sitting  in  the 
chairs  that  so  invitingly  and  hospitably  line  the  boule- 
vards. All  along  the  highways  and  byways  of  the 
parks,  and  all  along  the  boulevards,  are  thousands  of 
chairs,  which  people  do  not  hesitate  to  use,  for  they 
all  seemed  to  be  occupied.  I  saw  an  old  lady  going 
about  from  chair  to  chair,  to  collect  her  fee  of  a 
penny  for  a  seat  in  an  ordinary  chair,  and  two 
pennies  for  an  armchair.     The  seats  of  the  chairs 


40  PARIS 

round  up  in  the  middle,  and  to  an  observer,  would 
perhaps  not  look  especially  inviting,  for  who  wants 
to  sit  on  a  barrel?  But  wait!  When  you  sit  down, 
the  seat  falls,  and  lo !  we  have  a  comfortable  "cob- 
bler" seat! 

It  is  not  surprising  to  me  that  so  much  has  been 
said  of  this  beautiful  Bois  de  Boulogne.  After  pass- 
ing the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  one  has  an  unbroken  view 
down  the  Champs  Elysees  to  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde, and  the  long,  long  stream  of  carriages  going 
down  one  side  and  coming  up  the  other,  between 
the  borders  of  swaying,  rustling  green  trees,  is  an 
entrancing  vision  to  one  who  is  fond  of  the  spec- 
tacle of  human  life  and  activity.  It  stimulates  the 
imagination  to  a  wonderful  extent  to  look  on  at 
the  passing  show. 

In  the  middle  of  the  street  is  a  raised  platform, 
where  one  can  seek  safety  in  crossing  the  crowded 
thoroughfares.  An  alert  and  exceedingly  courteous 
officer  stands  on  guard,  and,  every  once  in  so  often, 
stops  traffic  by  a  mere  lift  of  his  hand,  to  permit 
pedestrians  to  cross.  He  is  the  guardian  angel  of 
many  who  might  otherwise  be  injured.  Let  us  lift 
our  hats  to  the  Paris  traffic  squad !    They  deserve  it. 

Pedestrians  in  Paris  must  look  to  their  safety,  for, 
I  am  told,  if  a  person  should  get  run  over,  or  in- 
jured in  any  way,  he  must  not  only  do  the  physical 
suffering,  but  also  pay  the  bill.  He  simply  must 
not  get  in  the  way, — he  simply  must  not  be  so  stupid 
as  to  allow  himself  to  get  hurt.  Now,  that  is  an 
idea !     Imagine  being  run  over  and  injured,  and  then 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  41 

being  arrested  for  it,  and  being  made  to  pay  a  fine! 
But  I  suppose  there  is  not  much  excuse  for  it,  with 
such  fine  traffic  officers  at  all  the  busy  crossings. 

We  certainly  had  some  wonderful  dishes  served  at 
dinner!  I  never  could  guess  half  of  them  from  their 
names, — some  very  simple  dishes  are  known  by  soul- 
disturbing  appellations  and  a  faint  scent  of  garlic. 
Mr.  Whatley  says  the  French  put  garlic  into  every- 
thing except  ice-cream.  He  has  no  use  whatever  for 
a  Frenchman. 


CHAPTER  IV 

PARIS    BY   MOONLIGHT.      A    STUDENTS'    CAFE 

After  loitering  about  the  great  parlors  for  a 
while  after  dinner  we  went  and  put  on  our  street 
dresses,  and  set  out  again.  It  was  moonlight!  The 
great  Opera  House  was  bathed  in  a  silvery  flood, 
but, — we  did  not  go  in.  We  were  looking  about  for 
a  seat  on  the  boulevard  again,  where  we  might  sit 
and  indulge  our  fancy  for  watching  the  crowds. 
What  is  more  intensely  interesting  than  the  subtle 
life  of  a  great  city's  teeming  streets, — its  surging 
throngs  of  men  and  women;  its  jostling  of  tragedy 
and  comedy;  its  never-ending  parade  of  fairly  obvi- 
ous apparitions?  Here  is  food  for  thought  and 
speculation  that  is  practically  inexhaustible,  and  we 
were  eagerly  searching  for  it. 

Later  on,  we  walked,  and  walked,  and  walked, — 
it  seemed  to  me  for  miles.  Then  we  came  to  a  cafe 
all  bright  with  lights, — the  Taverne  du  Pantheon, 
and  right  at  the  head  of  the  street  was  the  beauti- 
ful Pantheon,  its  great  gilded  dome  all  covered  with 
the  magic  white  of  the  moonlight.  It  looked  like 
some  wonderful  Oriental  dream.  How  the  moon- 
light changes  all  things  for  us! 

This  cafe  is  in  the  very  heart  of  the  Latin  Quar- 

42 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  43 

ter,  and  things  here  were  all  quite  different  from  the 
things  we  had  seen  at  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix.  We  had 
entered  a  different  atmosphere,  a  different  world. 
Here  we  felt  the  difference  between  monied  Paris 
and  student  Paris. 

The  great,  tall  houses  all  about  seemed  dark  and 
massive  in  the  night  shadows  and  moonlight,  and 
there  was  a  big  pond  of  water  in  the  middle  of  the 
street, — I  suppose  I  should  say  "fountain,"  but  it 
was  so  big  that  it  was  more  like  a  pond  with  an 
iron  fence  around  it. 

The  sidewalk  under  the  awnings  was  covered  with 
large  (not  small,  like  those  on  the  other  side  of 
the  town)  white-covered  tables,  and  good-humored 
waiters  stood  about  in  long  white  aprons.  They 
were  just  as  polite  and  attentive  as  those  examplary 
fellows  in  Brussels,  and  brought  our  coffee  to  us 
with  a  smile.  They  bring  coffee  in  a  polished  metal 
pot  with  an  extremely  long  handle  at  one  side  in- 
stead of  in  the  back,  and,  at  the  same  time,  bring 
a  pot  of  boiling  hot  milk  in  another  pot  of  the  same 
sort, — one  in  each  hand.  They  pour  out  first  the 
milk,  then  the  coffee,  holding  the  pot  up  at  a  great 
height,  so  that  the  coffee  foams  as  it  falls  into  the 
cup.  It  must  require  a  lot  of  practice  to  perfect 
the  trick. 

They  serve  a  drink  consisting  of  a  little  currant 
or  raspberry  juice  and  charged  water.  The  juice  is 
placed  in  a  tall,  slender  goblet,  and  a  syphon  served 
with  it;  and  no  matter  what  is  served,  they  bring 
it  to  you  with  the  glass  set  in  a  thick  china  saucer 


44  PARIS 

with  the  price  marked  on  the  bottom,  so  that  one 
can  readily  gauge  the  sobriety  of  his  neighbors  by 
the  size  of  the  stack  of  saucers  at  his  side. 

This  is  evidently  a  cafe  which  is  largely  patron- 
ized by  students.  I  saw  several  men  with  dark- 
green  velvet  coats  on,  the  collars  fastened  up  close 
around  the  throat,  and  wearing  most  amazing 
curled-up  mustaches.  At  another  table,  talking  and 
gesticulating,  were  several  woolly-haired  geniuses 
drinking  absinthe,  and  perhaps  working  up  inspira- 
tion. There  were  many  young  women  here,  too, — 
all  eating  regular  meals,  not  taking  drinks,  or  just 
coffee.  How  jolly  to  be  able  to  sit  out  in  the  cool, 
sweet  evening  air  to  eat! 

Hundreds  of  lights  gleamed  in  long  shining  lines 
down  the  streets;  lights  by  the  dozens,  too,  gleam- 
ing from  cabs,  carriages,  and  great,  rumbling  'buses. 
On  one  street  were  steam  trams,  with  a  second  story 
built  on  to  them, — two  cars  hitched  together;  and,  as 
soon  as  I  saw  them,  I  at  once  suggested  that  we  re- 
turn by  this  means. 

Just  over  the  way  was  an  entrance  to  the  Luxem- 
bourg Gardens,  which  lay,  dark  and  inscrutable,  just 
beyond  the  vision  of  the  eye,  the  moonlight  pouring 
down  upon  them,  suggesting  things  picturesque  and 
fanciful,  and  one  cannot  help  wondering — But  we 
will  wait  for  a  to-morrow  to  investigate  them.  There 
is  plenty  of  time,  and  mere  rapidity  of  movement  is 
not  everything;  in  fact,  is  not  always  to  be  desired. 

When  ready  to  return,  we  mounted  to  the  second 
story  of  a  steam  tram.     It  beats  a  carriage  all  to 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  45 

pieces!  Glorious!  We  could  look  from  our  eerie 
down  upon  the  crowded  thoroughfares, — lights  in 
every  direction;  carriages  with  different  colored 
lights  at  the  sides;  street  lamps,  automobile  lamps 
searching  the  roadways  with  great  glaring  eyes  of 
fire,  and  away  off,  through  the  silvery,  moonlit  space, 
we  could  see  the  mysterious  outlines  of  Notre  Dame, 
its  two  towers  and  its  fleche  over  the  intersection 
of  nave,  choir,  and  transepts,  all  covered  with  the 
white  of  the  moonlight;  the  great  flying  buttresses 
looking  gray  and  spectral,  like  so  many  great  curved 
arms  reaching  up;  the  trees  at  the  back,  like  so 
many  great  black  sentinels  standing  guard.  And  as 
I  looked  at  it,  looming  so  big  and  ghostly  there  in 
the  star-studded  moonlight,  I  remembered  all  the 
weird  and  uncanny  stories  I  had  read  and  heard, 
and  in  defiance  of  common  sense  and  reason,  I  kept 
thinking  of  them  all. 

On  the  river  were  many  barges  and  steamers; 
some,  silent  and  sleeping  at  their  moorings  in  the 
shadows  of  walls;  others,  steamers  or  bateaux, 
brightly  lighted,  tooting  and  chugging  along  over 
the  silver-streaked  water  all-ruffled,  casting  long, 
wrinkled  reflections  of  the  many  colored  lights. 
Lights  on  the  bridges,  too!  Bridge  after  bridge 
flung  across  the  wide  river,  each  with  its  quota  of 
brilliance  doubled  and  multiplied  in  the  reflections 
given  back  from  the  wriggling  waters  below. 

Away  off  in  the  distance,  we  could  see  dimly  the 
Eiffel  Tower  silhouetted  against  the  deep  blue  of 
the  starlit  heavens,  its  great  searchlight  on  the  top 


46  PARIS 

of  the  tower  throwing  a  long  shining  path  of  white 
light  across  the  city,  as  the  moon  gradually  trav- 
eled to  the  other  side  of  the  world. 

When  we  again  reached  our  own  hotel,  we  were 
not  too  tired  to  stop  at  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix  long 
enough  to  have  some  more  refreshment,  and  take 
a  good-night  look  at  the  passing  throngs. 


CHAPTER  V 

MEMORIES    OF    NAPOLEON.       HOTEL    DES    INVALIDES 

Each  place  has  its  own  gods,  and  we  cannot  es- 
cape them.  No  matter  where  one  turns,  the  partic- 
ular gods  of  a  place  are  confronted  and  must  be 
taken  into  account, — even  occasional  sacrifices  are 
exacted.  It  probably  would  not  be  possible  to  go 
to  Paris  and  not  give  some  thought  to  Napoleon 
Bonaparte.  One  sees  something  to  bring  him  to 
the  foreground  on  every  hand,  just  as  one  always 
meets  Charles  V  in  the  Netherlands.  Well,  grace 
to  the  dead! 

Mr.  Whatley  wanted  to  visit  the  tomb  of  the 
great  Corsican  the  first  thing  the  next  morning.  It 
would  be  difficult,  to  my  mind,  to  imagine  a  more 
fitting  spot  for  the  final  resting-place  of  the  man 
of  war  than  in  the  midst  of  all  this  paraphernalia 
of  war. 

Here  he  was  brought  in  1861,  with  great  pomp 
and  show,  and  laid  to  rest,  where,  to  quote  Madame 
de  Remusat: 

All    who    revere   his   glory,    his   genius,    his   greatness,    and   his 
misfortunes,  can  come  to  muse  above  his  grave. 

I  thought  of  how  many  years  ago  it  had  been 
since  the  news  came  from  St.  Helena  that  Napoleon 

47 


48  •  PARIS 

Bonaparte  was  dead,  and  then  I  thought  of  his  splen- 
did ride  that  cold  day  from  Courbevoie  to  the  In- 
valides.  After  the  arrival  of  the  Belle  Poule  at 
Havre,  the  body  was  placed  upon  a  flat-bottomed 
barge  and  towed  up  the  Seine  to  Courbevoie,  a  small 
village  about  two  miles  out  from  Paris.  When  all 
had  been  placed  in  readiness,  the  funeral  cortege 
formed  and  started  with  the  body  to  Paris,  One 
author  says: 

"Between  each  gilded  lamp-post,  with  its  double 
burners,  and  beneath  long  rows  of  leafless  trees, 
were  colossal  plaster  statues  of  Victory,  alternating 
with  colossal  vases  burning  incense  by  day,  and  in- 
flammable materials  for  illumination  by  night. 

"The  spectators  began  to  assemble  before  dawn. 
All  along  the  route  scaffoldings  had  been  erected, 
containing  rows  upon  rows  of  seats.  All  the  trees, 
bare  and  leafless  at  that  season,  were  filled  with 
freezing  gamins.  All  the  wide  pavements  were 
occupied.  Before  long,  rows  of  National  Guards 
fringed  the  whole  avenue.  They  were  to  fall  in 
behind  the  procession  as  it  passed,  and  accompany 
it  to  the  Invalides. 

"The  coffin,  having  been  landed,  was  placed  upon 
a  catafalque,  the  cannon  gave  the  signal  to  march, 
and  the  procession  started.  The  public  was  given 
to  understand  that  in  a  sort  of  funeral  casket  blaz- 
ing with  gold  and  purple,  on  the  top  of  the  cata- 
falque twenty  feet  from  the  ground,  was  enclosed 
the  coffin  of  the  Emperor;  but  it  was  not  so.  The 
sailors  of  the  Belle  Poule  protested  that  the  cata- 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  49 

falque  was  too  frail,  and  the  height  too  great.  They 
dared  not,  they  said,  attempt  to  get  the  lead-lined 
coffin  up  to  the  place  assigned  for  it,  still  less  to  try 
to  get  it  down  again.  It  was  consequently  deposited, 
for  fear  of  accident,  on  a  low  platform  beneath  the 
wheels. 

"First  came  the  gendarmes,  or  mounted  police, 
with  glittering  breastplates,  waving  horse-hair 
crests,  fine  horses,  and  a  band  of  trumpeters;  then 
the  mounted  Garde  Municipale ;  then  Lancers;  then 
the  Lieutenant-General  commanding  the  National 
Guard  of  Paris,  surrounded  by  his  staff,  and  all  offi- 
cers, of  whatever  grade,  then  on  leave  in  the  capital. 
These  were  followed  by  Infantry,  Cavalry,  Sappers 
and  Miners,  Lancers,  and  Cuirassiers,  Staff-officers, 
etc.,  with  bands  and  banners. 

"Then  came  a  carriage  containing  the  Chaplin 
who  had  had  charge  of  the  body  from  the  time  it 
left  St.  Helena,  following  whom  were  a  crowd  of 
military  and  naval  officers.  Next  appeared  a  led 
charger,  son  of  a  stallion  ridden  by  Napoleon;  and 
soon  after  came  a  bevy  of  the  Marshals  of  France. 
Then  all  the  banners  of  the  eighty-six  Departments, 
and  at  last,  the  funeral  catafalque.  As  it  passed 
under  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  erected  by  Napoleon 
in  commemoration  of  his  victories,  there  were  hun- 
dreds in  the  crowd  who  expected  to  see  the  Emperor 
come  to  life  again.  Strange  to  say,  the  universal 
cry  was:  'Vive  I'empereur!'  One  heard  nowhere: 
'Vive  le  roi!' 

"The   funeral   car  was  hung  with   purple   gauze 


50  PARIS 

embroidered  with  golden  bees.  As  I  said,  the  coffin 
of  the  Emperor  was  supposed  to  rest  upon  a  gilded 
buckler  supported  by  four  golden  caryatides;  but 
it  was,  as  the  sailors  would  have  said,  'stowed  safely 
in  the  hold.' 

"The  catafalque  was  hung  all  over  with  wreaths, 
emblems,  and  banners.  It  had  solid  gilded  wheels, 
and  was  drawn  by  eight  horses  covered  with  green 
velvet,  embroidered  with  gold  bees;  each  horse  was 
led  by  a  groom  in  the  Bonaparte  livery.  At  the 
four  corners  of  the  car,  holding  the  tassels  of  the 
pall,  rode  two  marshals,  an  admiral,  and  General 
Bertrand,  who  had  shared  the  captivity  of  the  Em- 
peror. 

"Around  the  catafalque  marched  the  five  hundred 
sailors  of  the  Belle  Ponle  .  .  .  Then  came  all  the 
Emperor's  aides-de-camp  who  were  still  living,  and 
all  the  aged  veterans  in  Paris  who  had  served  under 
him.  This  was  the  most  touching  feature  of  the 
procession.  Many  tears  were  shed  by  the  spec- 
tators, and  a  thrill  ran  through  the  hearts  of  eight 
hundred  thousand  people  as  the  catafalque  creaked 
onward,  passing  under  the  arch  which  celebrated 
Napoleon's  triumphs,  and  beneath  which  at  other 
times  no  carriage  was  allowed  to  pass.  But  enthu- 
siasm rose  to  the  highest  point  at  the  sight  of  the 
veterans  in  every  kind  of  faded  uniform, — Grena- 
diers of  the  Guard,  Chasseurs,  Dragoons  of  the 
Empress,  Red  Lancers,  Mamelukes,  Poles,  and, 
above  all,  the  Old  Guard.     'Vive  la  Vielle  Garde!' 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  51 

shouted  the  multitude;  'Vive  les  Polonais !  Vive 
l'empereur !' 

"The  procession  passed  through  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde,  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  obelisk  of 
Luxor,  which  of  old  had  looked  on  triumphs  and 
funeral  processions  in  Egypt;  then  it  crossed  the 
Seine.  On  the  bridge  were  eight  colossal  statues, 
representing  Prudence,  Strength,  Justice,  War,  Ag- 
riculture, Art,  Commerce,  and  Eloquence.   .   .   . 

"On  the  steps  of  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  was 
a  colossal  statue  of  Immortality,  designed  for  the 
top  of  the  Pantheon,  but  pressed  into  service  on  this 
occasion,  holding  forth  a  gilded  crown  as  if  about 
to  place  it  on  the  coffin  of  the  Emperor. 

"At  the  gate  of  the  Invalides  was  another  genuine 
statue — Napoleon  in  his  imperial  robes  was  holding 
forth  the  cordon  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.   .   .   . 

"The  coffin  was  borne  by  sailors  into  the  Chap- 
elle  Ardente  at  the  Invalides.  'Sire,'  said  Prince  de 
Joinville  to  his  father,  'I  present  to  you  the  body 
of  the  Emperor  Napoleon.'  'I  receive  it  in  the  name 
of  France,'  replied  the  King.  Then  Marshal  Soult 
put  the  Emperor's  sword  into  the  King's  hand.  'Gen- 
eral Bertrand,'  said  the  King,  'I  charge  you  to  lay  it 
on  the  coffin  of  the  Emperor.  General  Gourgaud, 
place  the  Emperor's  hat  also  on  the  coffin.' 

And  here  he  lies,  sleeping  where  he  wanted  to 
rest, — on  the  banks  of  the  river  he  loved. 

What  a  strange  arrangement  for  a  tomb!  But, 
as  Mr.  Hammerton  says: 


52  PARIS 

The  arrangement  does  not  interfere  in  the  slightest  degree  with 
the  architecture  of  the  edifice,  which  would  have  been  half  hidden 
by  a  colossal  tomb  on  its  own  floor;  whilst  we  have  only  to  look 
over  the  parapet  to  be  impressed  with  the  grandeur  and  the 
poetic  suitableness  of  the  plan.  With  our  customs  of  burial,  we 
are  all  in  the  habit  of  looking  down  into  a  grave  before  it  is 
rilled  up,  and  the  impressiveness  of  Napoleon's  tomb  is  greatly 
enhanced  by  our  downward  gaze.  We  feel  that,  notwithstanding 
all  this  magnificence,  we  are  still  looking  down  into  a  grave, — a 
large  grave  with  a  sarcophagus  in  it  instead  of  a  coffin,  but  a 
grave,  nevertheless. 

If  it  is  possible  for  the  Emperor  to  contemplate 
it  now,  it  must  bring  to  him  some  satisfaction,  or, 
perhaps,   some   regret. 

The  Hotel  des  Invalides  was  intended  to  be  what 
would  correspond  to  our  "Old  Soldiers'  Homes,"  and 
here  Napoleon  was  laid  at  rest,  protected  by  some 
of  the  old  soldiers  and  guns  and  cannons  of  almost 
every  known  kind  and  make. 

I  might  try  to  understand  something  about  the 
military  collections  here,  but  I  am  confronted  by  a 
catalogue  in  five  volumes.  Imagine  a  catalogue  run- 
ning through  five  volumes !  No  matter, — guns  all 
look  alike  to  me.  Mr.  Whatley  was  delighted  with 
all  that  array  of  murderous  implements, — said  they 
were  splendid.  Remembering  what  he  had  said  of 
the  collections  in  the  Ryks  Museum,  I  asked  him  if 
he  thought  this  collection  was  genuine,  and  he  an- 
swered : 

"Yes!  Every  blooming  gun!" 

It  is  strange  that  men  of  peace  will  contemplate 
the  implements  of  war  with  such  satisfaction;  yet 
they  nearly  always  do. 

In   passing  through   so   many   rooms   filled   with 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  53 

flags  and  banners  from  all  nations,  guns,  cannon, 
armor,  and  such  things,  I  must  confess  that  that 
feeling  of  being  on  hallowed  ground  that  comes  over 
a  person  when  treading  historical  places  was  en- 
tirely lacking.  I  could  only  feel  that  I  was  in  the 
midst  of  war  gods;  the  sense  of  death  was  not 
present. 

But  after  a  while  we  entered  into  the  great  domed 
room  wherein  lies  all  that  remains  of  the  man. 
There  is  a  hole  dug  into  the  ground  of  about  the 
same  dimensions  as  the  magnificent  dome  high  over- 
head, and  directly  covering  it,  which  has  been  lined 
with  polished  granite  of  a  grayish  color.  In  the 
center  of  the  granite-lined  opening,  has  been  placed 
the  sarcophagus, — an  immense  thing  made  of  shin- 
ing brownish  porphyry.  The  floor  of  the  great  open 
crypt  is  paved  with  mosaic,  upon  which  are  to  be 
read  the  names  of  his  most  famous  battles,  all  laid 
in  the  mosaic,  and  twelve  huge  statues  of  marble 
stand  guard  around  the  crypt  at  equal  distances  from 
one  another,  their  eyes  fixed  upon  the  sarcophagus, 
as  if  in  pained  surprise  at  his  long  silence. 

It  is  all  extremely  austere,  and  it  was  not  until 
that  moment,  as  we  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  well- 
like crypt  and  looked  down  upon  the  lonely-looking, 
solitary  sarcophagus,  did  we  feel  that  we  were  on 
ground  sacred  to  the  dead.  Perhaps  the  strange, 
solemn  blue  light  which  shed  its  phantasmal  rays 
over  the  place  had  something  to  do  with  our  trans- 
formed feelings.  Huge  windows,  filled  with  blue 
glass,  are  in  the  sides  of  the  edifice,  through  which 


54  PARIS 

the  sun  can  pour  down  its  flood  of  light  only  in  long 
blue  beams.  I  wonder  why  blue?  It  is  so  chilly. 
Light  has  so  much  to  do  with  the  thickness  of  the 
wall  that  separates  us  from  the  things  just  beyond, 
— just  out  of  our  physical  vision;  so  much  to  do 
with  our  sympathies  and  our  ability  to  respond  to 
those  impacts  that  we  receive  from  some  unseen 
source,  once  in  a  while,  when  standing  in  the  midst 
of  such  surroundings. 

Perhaps  the  music,  coming  softly  and  sweetly 
from  the  adjoining  church,  helped.  However,  it 
was  very  beautiful, — in  a  solemn  way, — and  I  no- 
ticed that  my  companion  had  not  once  placed  his 
hat  upon  his  head,  as  he  did  in  the  cathedral  at 
Brussels. 

Greatness  generally  spells  "loneliness,"  but, 
nearby,  is  placed  the  heart  of  his  second  wife.  Jose- 
phine is  not  there. 

Upon  our  exit  into  the  glorious  sunshine,  we  ran 
straight  into  a  wedding  party  just  leaving  the  church; 
the  pretty  bride,  all  in  white,  a  long  veil  trailing  be- 
hind her,  leaned  on  the  arm  of  her  newly-made  hus- 
band, her  face  bright  and  smiling.  We  gave  her 
our  best  wishes,  and  hope  that  she  will  always  be 
just  as  happy  as  she  looked  that  morning  as  she 
stood  in  the  long  porch  behind  the  row  of  Doric 
columns.  People  gathered  about  her,  many  kissing 
her,  and  then  the  whole  party  swept  down  the  walk, 
entered  the  waiting  carriages,  and  drove  away. 
Where?  Who  knows?  Some  man  standing  by  said 
that  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  military  officer,  but 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  55 

I  do  not  know  who  she  was.  The  marriage  sacra- 
ment was  evidently  the  reason  for  the  music  we 
had  heard  in  the  tomb,  for  which  we  were  grateful, 
as  it  had  dispersed  the  hard,  warlike  atmosphere 
in  which  we  had  found  ourselves  at  first  enveloped, 
and  had  helped  to  bring  about  the  more  gentle  and 
sacred  feeling  that  made  it  possible  for  us  to  appre- 
ciate, in  some  degree,  the  magnificence  before  us. 

One  thing  that  particularly  interested  me,  was  the 
death-mask  of  Napoleon.  I  suppose  it  is  a  true  one? 
Then,  really,  he  must  have  looked  quite  different 
in  life,  when  his  eyes  were  open,  because  I  cannot 
see  much  resemblance  between  his  death-mask  and 
the  faces  painted  on  so  many  canvases.  Perhaps 
both  are  accurate;  but  the  living  face  was  different. 

Here  is  also  the  great  funeral  car  that  was  used 
to  carry  his  ashes  at  St.  Helena.  His  gods  are  all 
about  him,  but  the  whole  place  is  softened  and 
sweetened  by  the  occasional  music  from  the  splendid 
organ  so  near  him. 

My  head  whirls  in  trying  to  follow  directions. 
The  streets  wind,  and  slant,  and  zigzag,  and  just 
when  one  thinks  he  has  a  clew  to  the  puzzle,  pifff 
the  name  changes,  and  you  are  on  another  street; 
at  least,  another  name  is  written,  although,  to  me, 
it  looks  like  one  street.  On  one  side  of  a  crossing 
you  are  on  a  certain  street;  but  the  minute  you  cross 
over,  you  are  on  another  street. 

All  around  the  Hotel  des  Invalides,  in  side  streets 
running  in  about  twenty-nine  directions,  are  such 
lovely  old  houses,  with  high  iron  fences  protecting 


56  PARIS 

them,  and  beautiful  gardens  at  the  sides.  In  many 
windows  were  boxes  of  blooming  flowers, — gera- 
niums generally, — which  gave  such  a  homelike,  com- 
fortable appearance  to  the  grayish  stone  houses. 

We  just  prowled  around, — up  one  street,  and 
down  another, — for  a  long  time,  looking  at  every- 
thing generally  and  at  nothing  in  particular.  Paris 
is  an  old,  old  city,  but  the  usual  marks  of  age  are 
nearly   all   lacking. 

When  we  met  people  they  looked  at  us  in  a 
friendly  way,  I  imagined,  and  as  if  they  would  speak 
at  the  toss  of  a  hat.  Perhaps  it  was  all  imagina- 
tion, but  they  looked  like  very  friendly  people. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A    TRIP    TO    SURESNES.       SOUVENIRS    OF    VOLTAIRE. 

TABLE    MANNERS 

In  the  afternoon,  Mr.  Whatley  said: 

"Let  the  art  galleries  go  hang!" 

And  so  we  went  to  a  lovely  little  place  just  out- 
side of  town,  on  the  Seine,  named  Suresnes.  We 
went  by  a  steamer,  which  we  took  at  the  Tuileries. 
The  "landing"  is  a  small  building  moored  in  the 
river,  and  gives  and  sways  with  the  motion  of  the 
water;  it  would  not  take  much  to  make  some  per- 
sons seasick  there. 

After  a  bit,  along  came  the  steamer,  tooting  and 
careening;  the  gateway  was  opened,  and  we  all 
boarded.  Wooden  settees  followed  the  line  of  the 
railing,  while  a  number  were  placed  in  the  center 
of  the  deck.  Every  one  crowded  as  close  to  the  rail- 
ing as  possible;  so  did  we. 

These  little  steamers  travel  fast. 

When  one  is  on  it  the  river  looks  different  from 
what  it  does  when  looking  at  it  from  the  banks,  and, 
too,  one  can  see  under  the  bridges.  How  big  they 
seem  from  below ! 

The  conductor  came  and  took  our  tickets  and 
gave  us  in  return  a  small  metal  piece,  which  was 

57 


58  PARIS 

given  up  at  the  end  of  our  journey.  That,  I  pre- 
sume, is  to  show  who  has  paid;  if  one  should  lose 
it  he  must  pay  over  again;  and  if  any  one  has  stolen 
a  ride  he  will  be  caught  when  he  tries  to  get  through 
the  gate  without  his  little  round  metal  piece. 

The  river  is  lovely, — so  many  islands !  Some  of 
them  quite  large,  and  some  are  only  green  specks 
dotting  the  water.  On  one  side,  at  a  certain  point, 
were  magnificent  woods, — great  trees  grew  thick 
right  down  to  the  water's  edge,  and  over  all,  a  blue 
sky,  flecked  with  tiny  white  clouds.  We  had  occa- 
sional glimpses  of  white-walled  houses,  potted  chim- 
neys, and  red  corrugated  roofs  showing  themselves 
between  the  waving  branches  of  fine  old  trees;  and 
the  flash  of  sunbeams  on  some  sandy-looking,  white 
road,  which  disappeared  behind  some  slight  eleva- 
tion, made  us  wonder  where  it  led  to.  But,  we  never 
knew.  It  would  not  be  an  exaggeration  for  me  to 
say  it  was  a  most  charming  trip,  every  inch  of  the 
way  being  filled  with  interesting  sights  certainly  to 
one  looking  upon  them  for  the  first  time.  It  sounds 
banal,  I  know,  but  they  were  not  strange  to  me; 
I  felt  that  I  had  seen  it  all  before,  at  some  time,  in 
some  far  distant  past;  however,  I  suppose  I  should 
render  thanks  to  the  kodak  and  magazines. 

When  we  reached  Suresnes,  we  climbed  the  em- 
bankment at  once  and  went  to  a  cafe  with  a  terrace' 
across  the  front,  which  we  had  observed  from  the 
deck  of  the  steamer,  and  whence  we  could  look  down 
upon  the  river.  On  the  terrace  were  tables  set  out 
in  their  snowy  damask  cloths,  and  there  were  a  lot 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  59 

of  people  there,  all  doing  as  were  we:  having  after- 
noon tea,  or  coftee,  and  looking  across  the  river  at 
the  picnickers  having  luncheon  on  the  grass. 

Carriages  and  automobiles  fairly  rattled  by, 
dashing  over  a  bridge  from  the  Bois,  and  then  on 
down  the  white,  winding  roadway,  where  they  were 
soon  lost  to  view.  There  were  hundreds  of  them. 
We  all  enjoyed  watching  the  carriages  more,  be- 
cause of  the  extremely  attractive  gowns  of  the 
women  (automobile  travelers  are  never  so  beauti- 
fully garbed) .  People  did  not  seem  to  care  so  much 
for  conversation  as  they  did  to  sit  quietly,  looking, 
generally,  across  the  river,  or  at  the  passing  show; 
it  was  only  occasionally  that  human  voices  disturbed 
the  peace  of  the  late  afternoon  atmosphere. 

We  sat  there  for  a  long  time,  doing  nothing,  say- 
ing little, — just  idly  watching  the  people,  the  ever- 
changing  reflections  on  the  river,  and  two  persons 
who  sat  on  the  extreme  end  of  the  terrace  and  seemed 
to  be  speaking  in  whispers;  they  might  have  been 
speaking  in  low  tones,  but  it  looked  as  if  they  were 
whispering.  What  is  more  tantalizing  than  whis- 
pering? One  straightway  wants  to  know  all  about 
something  that  might,  otherwise,  not  have  inter- 
ested him,  and  it  causes  one  to  indulge  in  all  kinds 
of  reflections  that  lead  nowhere  in  particular. 

As  the  evening  came  on,  and  the  sun  gradually 
traveled  to  the  other  side  of  the  world,  the  woods 
across  the  river  took  on  all  kinds  of  somber  shades, 
the  trees  casting  their  long  dark  reproductions  on 
the  water  below. 


60  PARIS 

Soon  a  little  steamer  came  along,  and  we  once 
more  secured  our  places  at  the  front  end,  where 
our  vision  would  be  unbroken.  The  view  seemed 
different:  the  setting  sun,  streaming  over  the  river 
and  the  houses  and  the  somber  trees  along  the  banks, 
turned  everything  to  a  gorgeous  amber  and  purple, 
while  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  the  windows 
glimmered  like  burnished  gold  and  copper,  the  Eiffel 
Tower,  giant-like,  overlooking  all. 

How  charming  it  is  to  be  able  to  get  out  of  the 
city  so  easily, — out  into  the  cool,  green,  quiet  coun- 
try! And  to  be  able  always  to  find  something  good 
to  eat  when  one  gets  there!  All  at  the  cost  of  a 
few  pennies.  It  costs  only  four  pennies  by  steamer 
to  Suresnes ! 

People  here  do  such  strange  things  with  impu- 
nity. I  do  not  believe  people  ever  laugh  at  each 
other,  and  that  of  itself  is  extremely  agreeable.  It 
eases  the  tension  to  such  an  extent  that  one  may 
go  smiling  on  his  way,  with  a  chance  to  be  at  his 
best,  and  do  all  kinds  of  things  without  the  fear  of 
being  laughed  at.  I  really  believe  that  in  Paris  a 
man  might  wear  a  straw  hat,  and  a  woman  a  linen 
dress  in  November,  without  creating  any  perceptible 
commotion.  No  one  seems  to  pay  the  least  attention 
to  passing  strangers.  This  may,  or  may  not,  be  the 
fact.     This  is  only  as  it  seems  to  me. 

Mr.  Whatley  proposed  a  restaurant  dinner  that 
evening  instead  of  our  usual  one  at  the  hotel.  He 
took  us  to  a  cafe  very  close  to  the  Odeon, — a  fine, 
ancient-looking   theater   on    the    other   side    of   the 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  61 

Seine, — known  as  the  Cafe  Voltaire  now,  but  which, 
in  that  great  man's  time,  was  the  Procope.  I  had 
often  read  of  it,  and  was  pleased  at  this  opportunity 
to  go  and  visit  it,  and  to  eat  a  dinner  in  a  place, 
which  is  said  to  have  been  so  pleasing  to  one  so 
famous.  It  is  said  that  Voltaire  used  often  to  go 
to  the  Procope  for  his  coffee  and  to  exchange  badi- 
nage with  the  wits  and  clever  ones  of  his  time. 

There  is  a  table,  oblong,  with  four  lean,  ema- 
ciated legs,  which  is  still  preserved  as  the  one  at 
which  he  generally  sat.  Here  is  also  his  chair,  stand- 
ing alone  in  solitary  state.  Ah,  well!  even  if  it  were 
not  really  his  chair,  this  is  a  nice  thing  to  do  in 
memory  of  the  famous  man  anyway.  Let  us  all 
bow  to  it,  and, — sit  in  some  other  chair. 

It  is  also  said  that  Napoleon  often  went  to  the 
Procope,  as  well  as  did  dozens  of  others  well  known 
to  fame, — even  the  Revolutionary  despots.  One 
needs  to  read  a  little  of  Voltaire,  muse  for  a  while 
above  Napoleon's  tomb,  read  a  little  of  the  horrors 
of  that  horrible  revolution,  so  as  to  get  into  the 
spirit,  and  then  come  here  and  sit  a  while, — long 
enough  to  entice  them  all  back  into  their  old  places, 
and  then  contemplate  them.  They  are  all  here,  but 
all  may  not  see  them. 

The  place  is  a  quiet  one,  with  a  certain  pictur- 
esqueness,  though  beginning  to  show  some  signs  of 
age.  It  is  furnished  plainly,  in  good  taste,  and  has 
a  comfortable,  homelike  air  about  it, — just  the  sort 
of  a  place  that  a  man  like  Voltaire  might  patronize. 

We  had  an  excellent  dinner,  including  wine  and 


62  PARIS 

black  coffee,  for,  I  think,  about  a  dollar  each.  There 
was  no  music,  but  a  great  deal  of  talking, — all  the 
men  with  their  napkins  tucked  under  their  chins  and 
their  mouths  filled  with  food.  Eating  does  not  seem 
to  interfere  with  conversation  in  any  way,  nor  did 
the  men  lay  down  their  forks  or  knives  when  making 
gestures,  and  I  felt  that  a  wonderful  feat  had  been 
performed  when  I  discovered  that  not  one  of  them 
had  been  wounded.  Here,  to  point  a  knife  straight 
into  another's  face  (or  even  a  fork,  or  a  soup  spoon) 
is  nothing  at  all.  I  wondered  aloud  if  Voltaire,  the 
man  of  form,  and  of  elegance,  also  wore  a  napkin 
for  a  bib  when  eating  at  his  "special"  table  here, 
and  Mr.  Whatley  returned : 

"My  word!  Of  course  he  did!  A  Frenchman 
never  changes !" 

Our  prejudices  are  amusing  when  not  tiresome, 
and  I  must  say  that  I  never  grew  tired  of  the  Eng- 
lishman's prejudices,  because  they  were  amusing  to 
me  as  an  American.  However,  I  discovered  that 
I  had  to  overcome  my  strong  objection  to  men  tuck- 
ing napkins  under  their  chins.  Why  not,  if  they 
want  to?  Perhaps  they  are  correct,  and  I  am  all 
wrong. 

However,  no  matter  how  a  Frenchman  eats  his 
food,  one  must  acknowledge  that  he  displays  rare 
taste  in  its  selection,  and  this  fact  is  in  all  probability 
more  worthy  of  attention  than  the  mere  matter  of 
deportment.  It  is  said  that  perhaps  one  reason  for 
the  grace  and  elegance  of  the  French  people  is  the 
taste  they  display  in  the    selection  of  their  food; 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  63 

coarse  and  depraved  food  will  never  produce  a  fine 
type  of  humanity, — to  the  contrary,  I  believe  that 
it  is  conceded  that  the  more  refined  the  food,  the 
more  civilized  the  people. 

After  our  excellent  dinner,  we  sat  there  for  a 
long  time.  Nobody  asked  us  if  we  desired  anything 
else,  nor  did  the  waiters  brush  our  table,  or  do  any 
other  of  the  nerve-racking  things  that  indicate  to 
patrons  that  it  is  time  to  "move  on."  No,  we  were 
not  disturbed  nor  molested  in  any  way,  and  I  be- 
lieve we  might  have  stayed  until  closing  time  with- 
out any  further  attention  being  paid  to  us.  Ah, 
such  things  are   a  joy! 

Then  we  went  out, — went  out  just  to  saunter  about 
in  the  moonlight  again.  I  believe  the  English  never 
tire  of  walking;  my  companions  seemed  able  to  walk 
for  miles  without  ever  getting  fatigued. 

Moonlight  in  the  heart  of  Paris  is  not  like  moon- 
light in  Antwerp.  Here,  where  the  streets  are  as 
brilliant  as  day,  it  is  not  so  shadowy  and  mysterious. 
Still,  the  silvery  moonlight  falling  down  upon  the 
crimson  and  yellow  of  the  street-lights  makes  a 
strange,  beautiful  combination,  like  some  great, 
wonderful  Arabian  Night's  vision  gradually  unfold- 
ing to  our  view.  The  streets  and  boulevards  were 
well  filled,  but  not  crowded,  and  all  moved  on  with- 
out any  jostle  or  unkindly  noises.  People  do  not 
seem  to  do  a  great  deal  of  talking, — are  not  noisy  in 
their  intercourse  with  one  another, — the  noise  seems 
to  be  rather,  a  sort  of  rumble  and  subdued  roar  that 
comes  from  the  tramp  of  thousands  of  horses'  hoofs 


64  PARIS 

and  turning  of  wheels  on  the  soft,  wooden  streets, — 
a  different  sound  from  that  made  by  the  human 
voice. 

We  walked  on  and  on,  over  on  the  quiet  side  of 
the  city,  into  more  and  more  quiet  quarters,  meeting 
fewer  and  fewer  people.  The  moonlight  was  glori- 
ous, throwing  a  silvery  radiance  over  tall,  old  houses, 
which  leaned  against  each  other  in  friendly  com- 
munion, along  various  small,  quiet  streets;  tracing 
quaint  and  curious  patterns  over  the  walls  and  many- 
windowed  Mansard  roofs, — casting  strange,  elon- 
gated outlines  over  the  narrow  stone  pavements  out- 
lined by  their  borders  of  black,  rustling  trees. 

What  wonderful  dreamlike  things  one  can  see  in 
the  moonlight!  Things  that  cannot  be  seen  in  the 
daylight, — things  that  by  daylight  would  be  too  com- 
monplace and  prosaic  to  contemplate.  Even  the 
chimneys  are  transformed, — thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  curious  pipes  of  chimneys  stick  up  from 
the  high  old  roofs  into  the  blue  sky;  some  of  them 
with  curious  hoodlike  tops,  giving  to  them  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  lot  of  tall,  lean,  garrulous  old  women, 
with  craned  necks,  standing  on  the  roofs  gazing  at 
each  other, — probably  sticking  out  their  tongues, 
and  quarreling.  Of  course,  on  a  moonlight  night, 
one  naturally  expects  to  see  such  sights,  and  to  let 
the  imagination  run  riot, — that  is  what  the  moon- 
light is  for.  The  nocturnal  habit  should  by  all  means 
be  cultivated;  one  sees  such  strange  sights,  while 
out  of  the  night  silence  come  such  strange  sounds, — 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  65 

sounds  whose  meaning  could  not  be  explained  any 
more  than  could  one  tell  whence  they  come. 

At  last  we  reached  the  river, — the  river  all  bathed 
in  the  white  rays  of  the  moon,  the  twin  towers  of 
the  Trocadero  dimly  outlined  far  off  in  the  silvery 
distance  against  the  indigo,  starlit  sky. 

There  were  strange  outlines  everywhere  along 
the  river  that  would  never  be  noticed  in  daylight,  but, 
sad  to  say,  we  heard  no  chimes.  One's  mind  con- 
stantly reverts  to  those  beautiful  Netherland  chimes. 

There  are  beautiful  chimes  on  Sainte  Clotilde's, 
but  we  were  perhaps  too  far  away  to  hear  them. 
That  is  one  of  the  sad  things  of  a  great  city, — one 
gets  too  far  away  from  the  chimes. 

A  great  double-decked  tram  crossed  over  the 
bridge  near  by,  with  an  uproar,  all  alight,  like  some 
fiery  monster  looking  for  prey. 

The  quiet  night  walks  are  far  more  interesting 
and  enjoyable  to  our  little  party  than  are  the  bril- 
liant cafes,  but  one  must  see  them, — we  must  see 
what  all  the  rest  of  the  world  has  seen. 

The  next  day  we  concluded  to  find  amusement  for 
ourselves  by  riding  about  for  a  while  on  the  top 
of  an  omnibus.  Ah,  the  'buses!  What  an  enormous 
amount  of  amusement  and  real  pleasure  one  can  buy 
for  two  or  three  pennies!  Looking  down  the  boule- 
vards from  the  top  of  a  'bus,  the  swarms  of  people 
always  on  the  move,  seem  unending.  They  pour  in 
from  all  the  cross  streets  and  side  streets, — people, 
trams,  omnibuses,  carriages,  cabs,  delivery  carts, 
and  wagons   piled  high  with  merchandise, — every- 


66 


PARIS 


thing  that  can  possibly  move  on  wheels  or  legs.  And 
they  never  seem  to  stop  anywhere,  always  moving 
on  and  on,  a  long  black,  stream  up  one  side  of  the 
thoroughfare  and  down  the  other.  On  the  Boule- 
vard Saint  Denis  this  traveling  stream  looks  like 
a  huge  serpent,  as  the  street  is  up  and  down,  and 
down  and  up,  with  never  a  break  in  it. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    LUXEMBOURG    GARDENS.       FREE    AMUSEMENTS. 

WORKMEN 

One  Friday  afternoon  we  went  to  the  Luxem- 
bourg Gardens  to  hear  the  Military  Band, — a  com- 
pany of  splendid  looking  men.  We  went  early,  in 
order  to  obtain  chairs  close  to  the  bandstand,  as  we 
wanted  to  see  and  hear  everything.  How  magnifi- 
cent military  music  is  out  in  the  open  air!  Every- 
body was  there, — old  people  and  young  people,  and, 
— heavens! — babies  by  the  dozen!  All  were  there, 
and  all  applauded  at  every  rendition,  no  matter  what 
it  was. 

After  the  concert  was  over  and  the  bandstand  de- 
serted, we  went  and  purchased  waffles,  fresh  and  siz- 
zling, from  a  small  stove  in  the  rear  of  a  waffle  booth 
not  far  away,  and  ate  a  disgraceful  quantity.  Music 
and  waffles  in  the  Luxembourg  Gardens, — heavens! 
And  then,  the  inner  man  satisfied,  we  just  wandered 
about  this  enchanted  garden  of  the  Old  World, 
where  so  many  things  speak  loudly  of  that  wonder- 
ful, terrible,  de  Medici  woman,  Marie.  She  it  was 
who  built  the  first  Luxembourg  Palace,  after  the 
death  of  Henry  IV.  'Tis  said  that  nothing  remains 
of  it  now,  but  it  was  here,  at  any  rate,  and  that  is 

67 


68  PARIS 

foundation  sufficient  for  the  imagination  to  work 
from.  She  retained  the  original  name  of  the  place, 
which  was  called  after  the  owner,  the  Duke  de  Piney- 
Luxembourg,  and  as  such  it  is  still  known,  and  as 
such  we  will  enjoy  its  beauty. 

There  were  cool,  shady  walks  under  the  great, 
rustling  green  trees,  with  an  infinite  supply  of  chairs 
placed  hospitably  under  their  cooling  shade;  there 
were  statues,  flowers,  and  fountains — the  lovely 
Fountain  de  Medici,  standing  at  the  end  of  a  little 
toy  canal  of  clear,  green  water.  It  is  like  a  high 
wall,  or  the  fagade  of  some  fanciful  building,  cov- 
ered with  statues  and  sculptures,  and  the  water  flow- 
ing out  from  a  sort  of  fount  in  the  center.  Vines 
grow  along  the  little  embankment,  flower  urns  of 
graceful  shape  are  placed  along  the  sides  at  regular 
intervals,  and  from  overhead,  long  green  shadows 
are  flung  on  to  the  quiet,  somber  water. 

We  stood  there  for  a  long  time,  thinking  of  many 
things,  and  especially  of  these  de  Medici  women. 
They  seem  to  pervade  everything:  they  are  not  dead 
at  all. 

It  is  great  amusement  just  to  wander  about  and 
watch  the  people, — certainly  it  is  to  strangers  in  a 
strange  land.  One  of  the  things  that  especially  im- 
presses me  is  the  seeming  ability  of  the  French 
people  to  enjoy  the  small  things  of  life,  to  grasp  the 
little  diversions  and  amusements  as  they  present 
themselves,  and  not  wait  for  something  big  to  come 
along, — something  that  costs  a  lot  of  money.  They 
will  laugh  at  a  joke   (or,  as  Mr.  Whatley  says,  "a 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  69 

crack"),  that  we  might  turn  up  our  noses  at;  and 
they  do  not  stop  at  one  laugh,  either,  but  recur  to 
it  time  and  time  again,  their  amusement  not  in  the 
least  abated.  The  antics  of  a  child  will  give  them 
the  keenest  of  pleasure;  even  grown-up  men  and 
women  will  watch  a  Punch  and  Judy  show  for 
hours;  a  picnic  in  the  country,  a  penny  ride  on  the 
river,  gazing  in  at  the  shop  windows, — from  all 
these  little  things  they  seem  to  obtain  so  much  plea- 
sure; and  they  cost  so  little.  I  must  admit,  however, 
that  we  enjoyed  the  Punch  and  Judy  shows  as  much 
as  they  did,  and  each  time  that  the  villainous  Punch 
rapped  poor  old  Judy  over  the  head  with  his  club, 
Mr.  Whatley  roared,  and  ejaculated: 

"Oh!  I  say,  girls!" 

And  everybody  around  us  laughed  at  him  as  much 
as  at  Punch  and  Judy.     A  laugh  is  very  contagious. 

Paris  is  filled  with  amusements  that  cost  no  money, 
or  at  least  very  little.  Even  the  penny  chair  on  the 
boulevard  is  a  pleasure. 

Many  persons  seem  to  find  pleasure  and  enter- 
tainment in  wandering  among  the  bookstalls  along 
the  river  embankments.  That  pleasure  doesn't  cost 
anything  either.  They  were  all  there, — all  those 
people  of  whom  I  had  read  in  the  story-books;  even 
a  couple  of  clean-shaven,  kindly-faced  priests,  in 
their  long  black  soutanes  and  low,  round  hats  of 
shining  black  plush  or  beaver.  You  will  see  all  kinds 
of  people, — "all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men," — 
standing  about  piles  of  books,  old  and  new,  looking 
at  this  one,  and  at  that  one;  turning  page  after  page, 


7o  PARIS 

reading  a  little  here  and  a  little  there, — not  always 
buying,  however. 

We,  too,  went  and  delved  among  the  books  for 
a  while  one  bright  sunny  morning,  just  to  see  what 
had  proved  so  interesting  to  others.  Heavens! 
"Caesar's  Commentaries!"  "La  Dame  aux  Came- 
lias," — illustrated!  Here  was  poor  Camille  dying 
in  a  curious-looking  bed  with  a  high  headboard  made 
of  cane,  like  a  chair-seat.  Over  there,  among  a  high 
pile  of  old  books,  was  a  medium-sized  book  bound 
in  green,  called  "L'Histoire  de  la  Tour  de  Nesle," 
which  I  wanted  to  read  because  the  binding  was 
green;  here  was  a  yellow-backed  book  called  "Crimes 
des  Papes,"  and  I  wanted  so  much  to  find  out  what 
their  crimes  had  been;  here  was  a  scarlet-backed 
book  of  dreams,  or  rather,  a  key  to  dreams,  called 
"Clef  des  Sognes,"  and  dozens  and  dozens  of  others 
whose  titles  conveyed  no  meaning  to  my  mind:  an 
unknown  world  lay  before  me.  Here  was  a  huge 
book  on  engineering;  nothing  in  that  that  I  could 
understand,  except  a  picture  of  the  Brooklyn  Bridge; 
but  there  are  so  many  things  of  which  I  know  noth- 
ing that  a  few  things  more  or  less  make  no  differ- 
ence. 

On  some  streets  there  are  booths  for  the  sale  of 
toys,  and  the  children  crowd  about,  buying  little  toys 
and  packages  of  things  all  done  up  in  tinfoil  paper. 
I  do  not  wonder  that  the  children  are  curious  and 
want  to  buy,  because  I,  a  grown-up,  could  not  resist 
the  desire  to  see  what  was  concealed  in  those  mysteri- 
ous, silvery  packages.     Of  course,  we  bought  some 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  71 

of  them, — chocolates,  little  cakes  with  pink  sugar 
over  the  tops,  and  nougat  were  generally  the  mys- 
teries revealed.  It  became  a  habit  after  a  time,  so 
that  I  could  scarcely  pass  a  booth  without  purchas- 
ing a  wee  package  or  a  gingerbread  man. 

Over  the  doors  of  half  the  public  buildings  and 
places  one  sees  the  legend,  which  might  mean  so 
much,  but  perhaps  means  so  little,  "Liberte,  Egalite, 
Fraternite."  One  closes  one  eye  and  looks  at  it  side- 
ways, but  it  adds  to  the  things  of  interest  to  be  seen 
for  nothing. 

Another  thing  that  amuses  me,  is  the  "Entree 
libre"  over  the  shop  doors.  Free  entrance!  Well, 
I  should  think  so,  inasmuch  as  it  by  no  means  signi- 
fies a  free  exit,  so  far  as  the  purse  is  concerned. 

There  is  so  much  on  the  streets  of  Paris  to  interest 
and  amuse  the  stranger.  The  laundry  girls,  for  in- 
stance. Their  hair  is  always  freshly  brushed  and 
artistically  "done  up,"  and  with  huge  wicker  baskets 
of  clothes  on  their  arms,  they  go  along  in  their  clean 
cotton  dresses  and  white  aprons,  their  hatless  heads 
shining  in  the  sunlight. 

There  are  also  the  bareheaded  millinery  girls, 
immaculate,  with  huge  hat  boxes  hanging  on  their 
arms,  which  they  handle  with  an  infinite  grace. 

I  was  always  interested  in  watching  the  soldiers,' 
with  their  sloppy  trousers  and  lagging  gait.  They 
look  more  like  Turks  than  Frenchmen,  with  their 
queer  "get-up." 

There  are  the  great  work  horses,  sometimes  three 
in  a  row,  with  tinkling  bells  on  their  collars,  always 


72  PARIS 

drawing  great  loads.  These  are  horses  from  Nor- 
mandy. 

In  our  walks  we  constantly  met  companies  of 
young  girls, — pupils  at  the  Lycees  or  convents, — 
walking  sedately  along,  two  by  two,  dressed  in  plain 
black,  stuff  dresses  and  small,  round  black  hats,  very 
much  like  the  priests'  hats,  a  lady  principal  walking 
at  the  head  of  the  procession,  and  an  assistant  at 
the  rear.  I  am  told  that  all  schoolgirls  are  required 
to  dress  in  this  way.  What  a  truly  excellent  plan! 
It  does  away  with  all  the  heartache  and  misery: 
one  is  dressed  no  better  than  the  other;  rich  or  poor, 
there's  no  distinction.  As  French  women  regard 
ragged  or  worn  clothes  as  almost  a  crime,  this  is 
excellent  for  that  reason. 

Then,  too,  the  workmen  give  a  touch  of  color  to 
the  busy  streets;  they  generally  wear  "Mother  Hub- 
bard" blouses,  made  of  bright  blue,  over  their  other 
clothes.  At  first  I  laughed  at  these  funny-looking 
men,  dressed  in  their  blue  blouses,  but  later  on,  it 
seemed  to  me  a  very  cleanly  habit,  saving,  as  it  does, 
their  woolen  coats. 

And  the  shop  windows !  Miles  of  them !  Cheap 
junk,  cheap  jewelry  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Palais 
Royal,  cheap  things  of  all  sorts!  Then  there  are  the 
first-class  stores,  where  one  may  buy  anything  under 
heaven.  I  notice,  however,  that  when  articles  of 
jewelry  (as  well  as  other  things)  are  imitation,  a 
sign  to  that  effect  is  placed  upon  the  article.  I  am 
told  that  it  is  against  the  law  for  a  shopkeeper  to 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  73 

sell  an  article  as  genuine  when  it  is  an  imitation, 
and  that  Inspectors  make  the  rounds  daily  to  see 
that  the  law  is  enforced.  Excellent!  Let  us  buy 
diamonds! 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  VENUS  OF  MILO.      THE  LOUVRE 

On  the  morning  that  we  succeeded  in  our  efforts 
to  get  Mr.  Whatley  to  accompany  us  to  the  Louvre 
to  see  the  object  of  so  many  dreams, — the  Venus 
de  Milo, — he  started  off  with: 

"My  word!  Oh,  I  say,  my  dear!  What  rot! 
What  blooming  rot!" 

But  he  never  drew  back  after  having  once  started 
out  on  the  expedition.  How  he  did  detest  art  gal- 
leries and  museums! 

We  found  her,  away  off  at  the  end  of  a  long  row 
of  sculpture,  looking  rather  lonely  in  her  ivorylike 
whiteness.  She  looked  exactly  like  all  of  her  photo- 
graphs and  reproductions,  and  I  was  trying  to  think 
of  something  to  say  that  would  be  worthy  the  occa- 
sion, when  Mr.  Whatley  said: 

"Oh,  I  say,  my  dear!  This  is  really  too  much! 
The  old  girl  doesn't  grow  a  day  older, — she  looked 
just  the  same,  exactly,  ten  years  ago!  Bah!  I  have 
a  sort  of  uncanny  feeling  for  a  thing  that  doesn't 
show  any  of  the  marks  of  time !  A  glance  is  enough, 
quite  enough, — it  is  only  an  ordinary  woman  of 
unknown  antecedents,  with  scant  clothing  on !  A 
glance  is  enough,  quite  enough!" 

74 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  75 

Away  went  all  the  fine  things  that  I  was  trying  to 
conjure  up,  and  I  laughed,  and  Miss  Whatley  looked 
reproachfully  at  her  father,  and  then,  we  all  laughed 
— right  there,  in  the  presence  of  the  most  celebrated 
of  all  the  wonderful  treasures  of  the  Louvre. 

One  would  have  to  spend  two  hours  a  day  for 
ten  years  to  see  all  there  is  to  be  seen  in  this  enor- 
mous gallery,  so  we  promptly  made  up  our  minds 
not  to  be  disappointed  if  we  did  not  see  it  all  the 
first  day.  However,  there  are  many  things  that  may, 
without  inflicting  any  very  severe  pain,  be  over- 
looked. The  difficulty  is  that  one  must  see  every- 
thing before  he  can  tell  what  might  have  been  over- 
looked. 

To  really  see  the  Louvre, — to  really  see  Paris, — 
one  would  need  to  have  at  least  two  pairs  of  eyes; 
eyes  to  see  the  effect,  and  eyes  to  see  the  cause:  a 
pair  of  eyes  to  see  merely  the  physical,  and  a  pair 
of  fourth-dimensional  eyes  with  which  to  see  down 
through  the  buildings  and  things  that  we  see  to-day, 
into  what  has  been.  One  cannot  help  feeling  that 
way,  when  he  comes  to  look  at  all  these  things. 
Some  little  knowledge  of  what  the  past  has  been, 
and  of  the  lessons  it  has  taught,  will  give  one  a 
keener  insight  into  the  present-day  things  with  which 
we  are  confronted  at  every  turn.  Sometimes  these 
things  seem  quite  meaningless;  but,  by  turning  back 
a  few  pages  of  history,  a  great  light  will  be  shed 
over  them. 

If  we  had  the  other  pair  of  eyes,  we  might  look 
down,  down  through  the  magnificent  pile  of  buildings 


76  PARIS 

called  the  "Louvre,"  and'  see  far  down  below  the 
shadowy  outlines  of  the  block-houses, — fortresses, 
perhaps, — from  which,  in  all  probability,  it  derived 
its  name.  But  we  cannot  do  this;  we  may  only  look 
at  what  stands  here  to-day, — the  remnants  of  a 
building  a  thousand  years  old! 

One  almost  becomes  confused  sometimes,  when 
looking  at  certain  buildings  and  churches,  trying  to 
remember  what  did,  once  upon  a  time,  stand  there. 
But  it  is  difficult  to  reconstruct,  unless  one  goes  in 
for  history,   or  psychology. 

Beneath  the  Pantheon  was  once  an  abbey.  The 
— well,  nearly  everything  stands  on  the  site  of 
what  was  once  something  else.  How  many  things 
one  might  see  beneath  Notre  Dame,  if  we  only  had 
the  other  pair  of  eyes !  An  altar  to  Jupiter,  Childe- 
bert's  church,  and  heavens  knows  what  else. 

To  any  one  interested  in  ancient  Egypt  and  As- 
syria, the  museum  in  the  Louvre  will  be  a  treat. 
Here  are  hundreds  of  objects  from  those  places, — 
sarcophagi,  sphinxes,  fantastic  figures  of  gigantic 
proportions,  with  lion-like  bodies  and  either  human 
or  rams'  heads;  monuments,  headstones  from  far- 
away tombs,  statues,  bas-reliefs;  great,  terrible 
winged  bulls,  colossal  figures,  terra  cottas — things 
that  would  fill  a  book  just  to  enumerate  them.  I  find 
a  mysterious  pleasure  in  looking  at  these  objects 
that  come  to  us  from  such  a  far-distant  past, — I 
want  to  question  them, — there  is  so  much  that  one 
would  like  to  know, — but,  they  never  answer  a  word. 

Mr.  Whatley  put  on  his  glasses  and  deigned  to 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  77 

glance  at  a  mummy  or  two,  but  pooh-poohed  the 
whole  collection  and  dismissed  it  with  a  wave  of 
his  hand.  When  I  suggested  that  the  French  were 
great  explorers  and  had  practically  invented  the  sci- 
ence of  Egyptology,  he  said: 

"My  word!  A  Frenchman  never  invented  any- 
thing but  a  soup !" 

Nevertheless,  "The  Egyptian  Museum  is  the 
largest  and  the  most  important  in  Europe.  It  is 
not  surprising  that  the  collection  here  is  far  su- 
perior to  that  in  the  British  Museum,  when  we  con- 
sider that  the  Department  of  Antiquities  in  Egypt, 
from  Mehemet  Ali  down  to  the  Arabi  Rebellion  in 
1882,  has  been  practically  controlled  by  Frenchmen, 
and  that,  in  short,  the  French  savants  might  almost 
be  said  to  have  invented  the  science  of  Egyptology." 
However,  it  seems  too  bad  to  subdivide  things  as 
they  do.  Here  is  the  enormous  sarcophagus  of  Ram- 
eses  III,  while  the  mummy  itself  is  at  the  Ghizeh 
Museum  (where  it  ought  to  be !)  and  the  lid  of  the 
sarcophagus  is  at  Cambridge  University.  Poor  old 
Rameses!  How  art  thou  divided! 

One  comes  again  and  again  to  look  at  the  silent 
figures  sitting  there,  so  immobile ! — all  that  remains 
to  tell  the  story  of  those  old  fellows  who  lived  and 
fought,  and  loved,  in  that  silent,  mysterious  land 
so  long  ago.  Perhaps  they  are  not  dead, — only  pre- 
tending. 

There  is  another  Department,  devoted  to  objects 
Phoenician.      I   cannot  say  "Phoenician"   without  at 


78  PARIS 

the  same  time  thinking  "Tyre  and  Sidon,  and  purple," 
— they  are  always  linked  in  my  mind. 

In  this  collection  is  a  vase  from  Cyprus,  which 
Baedeker  says  is  twelve  feet  in  diameter,  all  carved 
from  a  single  block  of  stone.  The  Ancients  seemed 
to  have  tremendous  ideas.  What  in  the  world  would 
any  one  do  with  a  vase  twelve  feet  wide?  What 
could  such  a  vase  be  used  for?  Mr.  Whatley  said 
it  was  "preposterous." 

Here  is  a  great  statue  of  the  wise  Marcus  Aure- 
lius,  and  busts  of  all  the  Roman  Emperors:  history 
right  before  our  eyes !  All  kinds  of  thoughts  come 
trooping  through  the  brain  as  one  stands  and  con- 
templates these  old  Romans.  One  feels  himself  in 
the  presence  of  a  strange  life,  as  if  watching  a  sol- 
emn procession  of  those  who  ought  to  be  dead  and  in 
their  tombs,  but  who,  by  some  strange  necromancy, 
have  prolonged  their  lives  beyond  the  boundaries 
of  their  tombs.  They  are  not  dead, — only  feigning 
death,  and  something  might  cause  them  suddenly 
to  spring  again  into  activity.  How  much  people  to- 
day resemble  them!  Especially  people  of  English 
blood.  We  still  meet  their  actual  counterparts  out 
on  the  streets  and  boulevards,  wearing  the  ordinary 
dress  of  to-day  instead  of  their  togas;  some  of  them 
are  leading  dual  lives,  because  they  are  still  there, — 
on   pedestals   in  the   Louvre ! 

In  the  Assyrian  collection  there  are  a  number  of 
enormous  winged  bulls  which  have  been  constructed 
with  five  legs  instead  of  four;  and  truly,  the  extra 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  79 

♦ 
leg  would  seem  almost  a  necessity  to  support  such 
a  body  if  the  creature  were  alive. 

There  are  also  enormous  winged  lions  with  human 
heads,  which,  somehow  or  other,  do  not  seem  so  gro- 
tesque as  one  might  imagine,  as  I  suppose  they  are 
all  symbols  of  some  form  of  thought.  I  found  my- 
self going  time  after  time  to  gaze  at  these  monsters, 
and  to  revel  in  the  train  of  thought  that  their  con- 
templation invariably  engendered,  and  felt  that  I 
could  very  well  understand  something  of  what  Sir 
Henry  Layard  meant,  when  he  said: 

I  used  to  contemplate  for  hours  these  mysterious  emblems,  and 
to  muse  over  their  real  end  and  history.  What  more  noble  forms 
could  have  ushered  the  people  into  the  temple  of  their  gods? 
(They  used  to  stand  at  the  entrance  of  temples.)  What  more 
sublime  images  could  have  been  borrowed  from  nature  by  men 
who  sought,  unaided  by  the  light  of  revealed  religion,  to  embody 
this  conception  of  the  wisdom,  power,  and  antiquity  of  a  Supreme 
Being?  They  could  find  no  better  type  of  intellect  and  knowledge 
than  the  head  of  a  man;  of  ubiquity,  than  the  wings  of  a  bird; 
of  strength,  than  the  body  of  a  lion.  These  winged  human-headed 
lions  had  for  twenty-five  centuries  been  hidden  from  the  eye  of 
man,  and  they. now  stand  forth  once  more  in  their  ancient  majesty. 

One  of  the  things  that  makes  the  Louvre  different 
from  other  galleries,  and  much  more  difficult  to 
comprehend,  is  that  here  are  to  be  found  paintings, 
sculptures,  and  antiquities  of  every  size  and  descrip- 
tion, from  all  ages,  and  from  all  lands.  Examples 
of  every  known  artist, — not  alone  the  French,  but 
Greek,  Roman,  Egyptian,  Flemish,  British,  far  off 
and  ancient  Babylon,  and,  say  it  gently,  even  from 
America.  This  all  makes  visiting  the  Louvre  ex- 
tremely difficult  for  all  who  have  not  unlimited  time 
at  their  disposal.     In  Holland  one  sees  Dutch  paint- 


80  PARIS  ' 

ing  and  Dutch  scenes;  in  Belgium  one  may  see  Bel- 
gian art,  and  be  enabled  to  form  some  idea  of  the 
work  of  the  country;  but  here,  there  is  everything 
from  everywhere  to  be  seen;  and  though  I  spent 
nearly  three  years  in  Paris,  I  never  did  see  them  all. 

Nearly  everything  in  the  collection  of  Greek  statu- 
ary and  sculpture  is  mutilated, — a  head  missing,  or 
a  leg  or  an  arm  or  a  toe, — something  gone.  It  is  a 
little  depressing.  It  makes  one  long  for  the  impos- 
sible; one  wants  to  see  it  all  "fixed"  and  made  whole. 
I  speak  as  a  barbarian;  artists  always  say:  "No,  let 
it  alone!" 

Here  is  a  fragment  of  the  frieze  of  the  Parthenon, 
which  shows  some  young  women  of  Athens  march- 
ing along,  holding  most  beautifully  formed  vessels 
of  strange  design,  in  company  with  a  couple  of 
priests,  and  I  want  so  much  to  know  what  goes  on 
before  and  what  may  be  following  them  from  the 
rear;  there  is  an  elusive  something  about  it  all  that 
keeps  one's  mind  roving.  Well,  let  us  be  glad  that 
we  have  even  this  much  from  that  long,  long  ago. 

The  things  that  attract  and  interest  me  amuse 
my  companions,  and  they  laugh  at  me,  and  then, — 
we  all  laugh  at  each  other,  and  Mr.  Whatley  gener- 
ally winds  up  by  saying: 

"Oh,  you  Americans  are  funny  people!" 

Here  is  a  sepulchral  stele  or  grave  stone,  upon 
which  is  carved  two  persons  in  the  act  of  shaking 
hands.  That  was  carved  there  a  long  time  ago,  when 
people  had  ideas  about  death,  reunion  after  death 
of  the  body,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  different  from 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  Si 

those  entertained  by  us  to-day.  Why  do  those  people 
greet  each  other?  Have  they  met  before  death, 
or  after?  Does  it  depict  a  reunion  after  death,  or 
what?  The  subject  of  the  carving  interested  me 
intensely,  but  when  I  tried  to  say  something  about 
it,  Mr.  Whatley  exploded:  "My  word!"  and  left 
us  long  enough  to  go  out  into  the  Rue  Castiglone 
to  get  a  whiskey-and-soda. 

One's  thoughts  run  riot  while  viewing  the  collec- 
tion of  ancient  pottery.  It  is  not  so  much  the  pot- 
tery itself,  as  pottery,  that  is  interesting;  it  is  the 
thoughts  and  dreams  that  it  suggests,  until  one  is 
fairly  enveloped  in  a  veil  of  mysticism. 

There  are  a  great  number  of  figurines  of  Tana- 
gra  terra  cotta  from  Greece,  which  have  been  tinted 
and  colored  in  all  sorts  of  ways  until  they  look  very 
lifelike.  They  remind  one  of  the  lovely  little  figur- 
ines with  which  every  one  who  has  been  to  Mexico 
is  familiar,  and,  like  the  Mexican  figurines,  are  made 
to  represent  the  occupations  of  the  common,  every- 
day life  of  the  people.     Therein  lies  their  interest. 

I  am  not  afraid  to  cross  the  ocean  all  alone,  and 
I  am  not  afraid  to  do  lots  of  things  that  many  brave 
people  might  hesitate  to  do,  but  I  am,  as  the  chil- 
dren say,  "scared"  to  go  all  alone  into  the  big  room 
styled  the  "Salle  des  Caryatides."  I  don't  like  it. 
It  gives  me  the  creeps.  Four  men  were  hanged  in 
that  room,  and  after  Henry  IV  was  assassinated,  in 
1610,  his  body  lay  in  state  in  that  room.  I  sup- 
pose they  are  all  very  dead  by  this  time,  but  I  do  not 
like  the  room. 


82  PARIS 

There  is  something  else  curious  in  this  room. 
There  are  two  ancient  basins  of  Cicilian  marble, 
placed  at  some  distance  from  each  other,  and  if  you 
whisper  ever  so  faintly  at  the  edge  of  one  basin, 
your  words  can  be  distinctly  understood  by  the  per- 
son listening  at  the  edge  of  the  other  basin  away 
across  the  hall,  even  though  a  score  of  persons 
should  be  standing  between,  and  not  one  of  them 
could  hear  a  sound. 

The  place  is  full  of  interest,  full  of  things  that 
set  up  strange  trains  of  thought,  leading  the  mind 
into  unusual  places, — far  out  into  those  misty  realms 
of  speculation  where  we  may  not  go  at  will,  but  must 
wait  for  the  right  line  of  thought  to  be  started  to 
take  us  in. 

This  room  is  filled  with  magnificent  statuary; 
beautiful  figures  of  noble  proportions  on  pedestals 
of  huge  blocks  of  stone,  but  the  barrel-like  ceiling 
seems  somber;  and  when  I  look  up  at  the  blackness 
of  the  arched  opening  at  the  end  of  the  room,  close 
up  to  the  ceiling,  I  feel  shivery.  Henry  IV  might 
come  back  and  look  down  with  a  ghostly  eye,  or 
those  one  hundred  and  ten  Pages,  who  got  spanked 
in  there  one  day,  might  set  up  a  ghostly  howl.  No, 
I  don't  like  it, — when  I  am  all  alone.  One  must 
have  company  when  one  visits  the  Salle  des  Carya- 
tides. 

Why  should  a  dog-faced  baboon  adore  the  rising 
sun?  What  would  a  dog-faced  baboon  know  about 
either  adoration  or  rising  suns?  But  here  is  a  por- 
tion of  the  base  of  the  obelisk  of  Luxor,  and  these 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  83 

horrid  creatures  are  carved  on  it,  and  Baedeker's 
explanation  is:  "Four  cynocephali  [dog-faced  ba- 
boons] adoring  the  rising  sun."  Upon  what  queer 
highways  has  the  imagination  traveled!  Or  have 
there  ever  been  dog-faced  baboons? 

One  beautiful  morning  we  again  found  our  way 
to  the  Louvre  to  see  the  Nike  of  Samothrace, 
(Winged  Victory),  standing  there  on  the  top  landing 
of  the  Daru  staircase, — a  fine,  effective  position,  but 
one  quite  different  from  the  prow  of  a  trireme.  That 
wonderful,  long-sung  drapery  still  floats  about  her, 
even  though  there  is  no  breeze  blowing!  But  I  wish 
she  had  not  lost  her  head. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    BOURSE.       A    RAINY    DAY 

The  Bourse  is  a  fine,  impressive  building,  built 
in  imitation  of  the  Temple  of  Vespasian  at  Rome. 
That  was  its  only  interest  to  me,  but  Mr.  Whatley 
went  over  one  day,  and  came  back  fairly  snorting 
with  disgust, — said  that  the  men  were  mere  "money 
grubbers," — "horrible  persons";  that  their  faces 
were  mean,  with  an  eagerness  to  get  money;  was 
disgusted  with  their  terrible  noise,  and  screaming  at 
each  other.  I  listened,  but  laughed.  I  thought  of 
our  own  Exchanges,  and  of  some  of  the  things  that 
there  transpire:  of  the  "greased  pig"  at  New  Year's 
and  the  "straw-hat  war"  on  the  first  of  September, 
and  a  few  other  such  harmless  antics,  but  I  said  never 
a  word. 

It  sometimes  rains  in  Paris.  I  had  never  thought 
of  such  a  contingency;  I  had  always  thought  of 
Paris  as  a  place  of  perpetual  sunshine  and  unlagging 
joy.     But  it  rains, — sometimes. 

One  morning,  when  we  went  to  the  windows  to 
look  out,  as  we  invariably  did  immediately  upon 
awakening,  we  were  most  surprised.  A  cold,  slant- 
ing rain  was  falling;  the  streets  had  been  washed 
so  clean  that  they  fairly  shone.     The  cabmen  were 

84 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  85 

passing  along  by  the  hundreds,  all  with  large  capes 
thrown  over  their  shoulders,  flapping  back  and  forth 
in  the  wind,  a  sort  of  oil-cloth  cover  drawn  down 
over  their  white  stovepipe  hats,  the  rain  running  in 
streams  over  the  backs  of  the  horses. 

This  was  delightful!  This  was  the  first  morning 
that  we  had  missed  seeing  the  street  cleaners  in  their 
blue  smocks,  washing  the  streets  with  their  garden 
hose  attached  to  rollers,  which  they  rolled  along 
from  one  point  to  another.  There  was  no  need  for 
them  this  morning. 

After  a  while  we  took  a  closed  carriage  and  went 
out  to  see  how  Paris  looked  in  a  rainstorm.  If  you 
will  give  a  cabman  to  understand  that  there  is  going 
to  be  a  nice  gratuity  for  him,  he  will  be  sure  to  help 
you  to  see  all  that  you  set  out  to  see.  And  so,  this 
morning  in  the  rain  our  coachman  drove  us  up  one 
street  and  down  another, — through  crowded  thor- 
oughfares, and  further  out,  into  the  quiet  quarters 
of  the  drenched  city. 

Water  was  pouring  in  streams  off  the  gutters  of 
the  tall  old  houses;  was  running  in  streams  in  the 
street  gutters;  was  running  in  rivulets  over  the  side- 
walks; umbrellas  hid  the  faces  of  nearly  every  one 
making  his  way  along  under  the  dripping  trees;  cab- 
men called  to  their  clean-washed  horses,  and  the  air 
was  full  of  the  subdued  noises  of  a  rainstorm. 

We  came  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde.  The  whole 
place  was  covered  with  a  soft  veil  of  silvery  mist, 
the  gray-white  rain  falling  down  in  long,  slanting 
sheets;  the  obelisk  looming  big  and  gray,  pointing 


86  PARIS 

a  long  gray  finger  to  a  gray  sky;  the  fountains  tossing 
their  white,  foaming  spray  to  the  breezes  that  blew 
swift  across  the  great  square;  carriages  and  cabs 
darting  fantom-like  through  the  gray  mist,  each  go- 
ing its  own  way.  Occasionally  great  omnibuses,  of 
seemingly  fantastic  proportions,  would  rattle  across 
with  a  waggle  and  roar,  and  disappear  in  the  gray 
blotch  of  atmosphere.  The  black  drapery  of  mourn- 
ing on  the  monument  of  lost  Alsace-Lorraine  hung 
limp  and  dank  over  the  lugubrious  figure,  the  bead 
wreaths  shone  in  their  fresh  bath,  and  the  Chevaux 
de  Marly  seemed  to  be  looking  about  for  some  sort 
of  shelter.  Luncheon  tasted  unusually  good  that 
day  in  the  brilliantly-lighted  dining-rooms,  and  I  have 
often  wondered  just  how  much  effect  a  good  dinner 
has  had  on  the  history  of  the  world. 


CHAPTER  X 

EN    PENSION.       BATHING    IN    PARIS.       THE    JULIEN 
ATELIER.      NURSEMAIDS 

At  length  came  the  day  when  the  Whatleys  and 
I  must  part.  Even  at  this  distance  of  time  I  dislike 
to  think  about  it.  Our  bon  camaraderie  had  ex- 
tended from  weeks  into  months,  with  never  a  break, 
— not  even  a  ripple.  We  had  traveled  together 
as  a  family,  we  had  gone  into  all  kinds  of  strange 
and  curious  places  together,  we  had  eaten  all  kinds 
of  strange  and  wonderful  dishes  together,  and  we 
had  drunk  all  kinds  of  strange  drinks  together;  had 
wandered  about  in  the  moonlight  and  seen  all  kinds 
of  quaint  and  curious  things  together, — these  two 
delightful  English  people  and  the  one,  lone  Ameri- 
can woman. 

Through  an  introduction  to  a  friend  of  Miss 
Whatley's,  I  found  myself  that  same  day  installed 
in  a  "pension"  on  the  Rue  de  Longchamps,  not  more 
than  five  minutes'  walk  from  the  Arc  de  Triomphe. 
Mrs.  Harmon, — the  friend  of  whom  I  spoke, — 
called  at  the  Grand  Hotel  for  me,  and  together  we 
went  to  the  pension  kept  by  Madame  Francois, 
while  the  Whatleys  were  well  on  their  way  to  their 
little  green  island. 

87 


88  PARIS 

Madame  Frangais  was  a  friendly  little  woman, 
bubbling  over  with  kindness  and  an  apparent  inter- 
est in  every  one  under  her  roof-tree.  She  had  al- 
ways a  smile  on  her  face  and  a  funny  little  twinkle 
in  her  large  gray  eyes.  I  had  to  look  twice  to  see 
that  she  was  not  in  reality  smiling,  as  the  suggestion 
was  always  there. 

She  had  ten  guests, — every  blessed  one  of  them 
English.     I  was  the  only  American. 

This  was  quite  different  from  the  grandeur  of 
the  large  hotel  on  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines,  but 
its  coziness  and  friendly  atmosphere  amply  compen- 
sated for  the  splendor  left  behind. 

The  Pension  was  composed  of  two  entire  floors 
of  a  tall,  gray  old  house,  all  the  sleeping  apartments 
being  on  the  upper  floor,  and  the  parlors,  dining- 
room,  kitchen,  library,  smoking-room,  and  servants' 
quarters  on  the  lower  floor.  Cerberus  (the  con- 
cierge) lived  on  the  ground  floor,  and  kept  faithful 
tab  on  every  one  of  us.  I  had  read  so  much  of  this 
system  of  having  doorkeepers,  as  it  were,  in  Paris, 
that  I  expected  to  find  it  much  worse  than  it  really 
was.  So  far  as  I  personally  am  concerned,  I  think 
it  a  very  good  arrangement,  that  is,  if  one  is  sure  to 
get  in  before  ten  p.  m.  After  that, — well,  perhaps 
hotels   are   better. 

My  room  looked  directly  on  the  Rue  de  Long- 
champs,  and  had  two  large  windows  which  opened 
all  the  way  down  to  the  floor.  They  had  little  lace 
curtains  that  exactly  fitted  the  windows,  one  for  each 
side  of  the  opening,  hung  up  tight  and  plain  like 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  89 

a  mat  against  the  glass;  then  over  these  were  red 
curtains  of  a  thick,  woolly  material,  which  could  be 
pulled  back  during  the  day.  Two  windows !  That 
was  positive  luxury  when  one  understands  that  all 
windows  are  taxed  in  Paris.  Miss  Betham-Edwards 
says: 

The  householder  of  narrow  means  must,  above  all,  forego  a 
cheerful  outlook;  and  all  windows,  whether  looking  north  or  south, 
east  or  west,  are  taxed.  .  .  .  Doors  and  windows  were  first  as- 
sessed under  the  Directoite,  twenty  centimes  (four  cents)  only 
being  charged  per  window  in  communes  of  less  than  five  thousand 
souls;  sixty  (twelve  cents)  in  those  of  the  two  first  stories  in 
communes  of  one  hundred  thousand.  The  new  duty  aroused  a 
storm  of  opposition.  "What!"  cried  a  member  of  the  cinq  cents, 
"if  I  wish  to  put  a  window  looking  east  in  my  house  in  order  that 
I  may  adore  nature  at  sun-rising,  I  must  pay  duty?  If,  in  order 
to  warm  the  chilly  frame  of  my  aged  father,  I  want  a  southern 
outlet,  I  must  pay  duty?  And  if,  in  order  to  avoid  the  burning 
heat  of  Thermidor,  I  wish  for  an  opening  north,  I  must  pay 
duty?  Surely  it  is  possible  to  choose  an  imposition  less  objection- 
able and  odious!" 

By  a  law  of  1832,  some  modifications  were  made  in  favor  of 
factories  and  workmen's  dwellings.  ...  A  Parisian  window  is 
often  no  window  in  the  proper  sense  of  the  term.  Colored  glass 
is  now  much  used  ...  to  prevent  neighbors  from  overlooking 
each  other! 

One  really  should  appreciate  two  windows  with 
panes  of  clear,  clean  glass,  giving  an  uninterrupted 
outlook  on  to  a  beautiful  thoroughfare,  when  he  un- 
derstands such  conditions.  I  was  always  wonder- 
ing what  the  tax  was  on  windows  five  stories  above 
the  street,  but  I  never  had  the  courage  to  ask  Mon- 
sieur Frangais. 

One  great  drawback,  however,  was  the  fact  that 
there  was  no  bathroom,  and  to  an  American,  this  is 
a  real  hardship.    Very  well !    Each  morning  a  large- 


90  PARIS 

sized  rubber  "dish-pan"  was  brought  to  my  room, 
accompanied  by  an  enormous  copper  jug  of  hot 
water.  Upon  the  whole,  it  might  have  been  worse, 
and  I  soon  learned  how  to  bathe  in  sections.  One 
can  send  out  for  the  "ambulatory"  bath,  too,  which 
will  be  brought  to  the  house  at  any  moment  desired. 
This  I  found  very  amusing.  Of  course,  baths  are  to 
be  found  in  all  the  large  hotels,  but  in  these  old 
houses,  they  are  seldom  encountered.  M.  Rambaud 
says: 

We  borrowed  many  things  from  England,  not  the  least  valuable 
being  bodily  cleanliness,  a  habit  of  copious  ablutions,  personal 
hygiene,  that  had  made  scant  progress  during  twenty-five  years 
of  military  campaign. 

Another  author  says  that  at  the  present  time,  the 
French  are  "Ardent  devotees  of  le  tub;  tuber  is  now 
conjugated  as  a  verb," — so,  I  suppose  we  might  say: 
"I  tub ;  thou  tubbest ;  he-she-it  tubs ;  we  tub ;  they  tub ; 
you  tub,"  etc. 

The  bed  in  my  room  was  a  very  comfortable  one, 
but  the  maid  insisted  upon  covering  my  pillows  with 
the  counterpane,  which  made  me  feel  lonesome, — I 
wanted  my  pillows  left  on  the  outside,  and  every 
day,  after  she  had  completed  the  room  and  gone,  I 
pulled  them  out  and  placed  them  on  the  outside. 
That  was  one  thing  that  I  never  could  get  used  to : 
I  could  eat  anything,  and  do  many  things,  but  I 
could  not  accustom  myself  to  looking  at  a  bed  with- 
out pillows  showing  on  the  outside  of  the  counter- 
pane.    It  makes  a  room  look  so  ghastly  lonesome. 

We  had  no  light  in  the  bedrooms  except  that  of 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  91 

candles.  Candles!  I  was  delighted.  Just  think 
of  getting  into  bed  by  candlelight!  In  Paris,  too! 
I  had  to  pinch  myself  and  look  again,  to  make  sure. 

In  France  one  sees  in  houses  so  many  objects, — 
furniture,  hangings,  china,  and  so  on,  that  looks  as 
though  they  ought  to  be  in  the  Louvre  along  with 
the  rest  of  the  old  furniture  and  antiquities,  instead 
of  in  a  private  home.  I  am  told  that  the  French 
when  they  furnish  a  home  furnish  it  for  all  time, — 
there  is  no  refurnishing  or  "doing  the  house  over," 
as  with  us;  hence,  we  see  always,  in  nearly  every 
house,  pieces  of  beautiful  old  furniture,  worn  hang- 
ings, magnificently  decorated  china,  lovely  bits  of 
pottery,  and  such  things.  It  has  been  placed  there 
to  be  used  by  future  generations,  and  not  to  be  dis- 
carded on  the  first  day  of  May. 

There  were  so  many  little  things  concerning  the 
common,  everyday  life  of  the  family  that  amused 
me.  Monsieur  Francais,  a  sort  of  little  father  to 
every  guest  in  the  house,  would  come  home  at  about 
five  o'clock  each  evening;  let  himself  in  with  his  own 
key,  instead  of  ringing  the  bell;  hang  his  hat  on  a 
tall,  lean  rack  in  the  hallway;  tiptoe  into  the  sitting- 
room,  then  steal  up  behind  his  wife  and  kiss  her  first 
on  one  cheek,  then  on  the  other.  Madame  would 
always  give  a  little  scream,  throw  up  her  hands,  and 
ejaculate  something  that  I  did  not  understand;  then 
they  would  do  it  all  over  again,  and  then  stand  back 
and  laugh  at  each  other.  Then,  he  would  ask  for 
"Maman"  (Madame  Francais'  mother),  run  in  a 
sort  of  funny  little  dog-trot  to  wherever  she  hap- 


92  PARIS 

pened  to  be,  and  kiss  her  too,  on  each  of  her  fat, 
rosy  cheeks.  I  used  to  watch  for  this  little  comedy 
every  day,  when  I  happened  to  be  at  home,  and  it 
was  always  the  same.  I  liked  them  because  of  their 
love  for  each  other. 

The  little  old  mother-in-law  was  truly  the  house- 
hold goddess.  She  was  very  fond  of  telling  tales  and 
legends,  and  was  always  pleased  to  find  a  listener. 
She  told  me  the  most  amazing  things:  stories  of 
revolutions,  fairy  tales, — all  sorts  of  things,  which 
she  declared  to  be  true,  and  to  which  I  never  tired 
of  listening;  then,  if  she  saw  that  I  really  did  be- 
lieve her,  she  would  laugh  at  me. 

At  the  table,  Madame  sat  at  the  center  of  one 
side  of  the  table,  instead  of  at  the  end,  and  Monsieur 
Francois  sat  opposite  her.  At  first  this  arrangement 
seemed  a  little  strange  to  me,  but  after  a  while  I 
liked  it  better,  as  it  brought  our  hosts  nearer  to  us, — 
the  head  of  the  table  seeming  so  much  further  away. 
Monsieur  Frangais  always  poured  the  wine  and  pre- 
pared the  salad,  and  most  wonderful  sauces  he  could 
mix,  right  there  at  the  table. 

We  never  went  to  the  dining-room  for  breakfast: 
coffee,  hot  milk,  rolls,  and  sweet  butter  were  brought 
to  our  rooms  at  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning 
by  Annette,  the  bright,  chirrupy  little  maid, — and 
we  could  hear  her  coming,  too,  long  before  she 
reached  the  door.  Quietness  in  the  early  morning 
hours  was  not  one  of  Annette's  virtues. 

Mrs.  Harmon  was  a  student  at  one  of  the  Julien 
studios,  and  was,  at  the  same  time,  engaged  in  copy- 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  93 

ing  a  great  painting  in  the  Louvre  for  a  church 
somewhere  in  England.  She  was  a  bright,  clever 
woman,  but  my  liking  for  her  was  based  on  the 
ground  of  her  friendship  with  the  Whatleys,  rather 
than  on  her  cleverness. 

One  day,  she  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to  go  to  the 
studio  with  her.  Of  course,  I  "liked,"  and  so  I  went 
with  her  to  the  Rue  de  Berri,  a  street  just  off  the 
Avenue  des  Champs  Elysees,  not  far  from  the  Arc 
de  Triomphe. 

In  a  very  large  room  were  probably  twenty  or 
thirty  students, — all  girls, — with  big,  checkered 
gingham  aprons  fastened  about  them,  right  up  to 
the  neck.  Each  had  a  large  easel  before  her  and  a 
canvas,  or  paper,  resting  on  it.  I  believe  every  one 
was  standing  at  work,  although  each  was  provided 
with  a  stool. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room  was  a  platform,  quite 
high,  upon  which  stood  a  young  woman  with  pretty, 
fluffy  brown  hair  fastened  back  from  her  face  with 
a  bandeau,  but  not  another  bit  of  anything  else  upon 
her.  She  had  one  arm  extended  and  the  hand  lifted, 
in  what  seemed  to  me  a  very  difficult  pose;  but  she 
held  it,  and  stood  there,  without  any  apparent  move- 
ment, for  fully  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  The  instructor, 
whoever  he  was,  went  about  from  one  student  to 
the  other,  pointing  out  this  and  that,  talking  all  the 
time.  He  would  take  off  his  glasses,  suspend  them 
at  an  acute  angle,  and  then  use  them  as  a  "pointer," 
correcting  and  suggesting.  Then  a  sort  of  murmur 
went  around  the  room,  and  before  I  knew  what  had 


94  PARIS 

happened  (as  I  had  not  known  what  to  expect),  all 
were  rushing  toward  the  doorway,  out  into  a  large 
hall.  The  model  then  threw  a  heavy  dark  cloak 
around  herself,  and  went  out  too.  It  was  lunch 
time !  No  one  even  so  much  as  looked  at  the  model, 
and  I  was  told  that  no  woman  student  would  speak 
to  a  model  who  posed  for  the  classes.  Why?  The 
poor  girl !     They  could  not  work  without  her. 

I  was  told  that  there  was  always  a  scramble  for 
positions, — that  the  first  arrivals  got  the  most  de- 
sirable positions;  that  each  must  sketch  from  the 
position  in  which  she  finds  herself  upon  her  arrival 
for  the  day's  work. 

Upon  this  occasion,  they  were  sketching  in  char- 
coal, and  I  was  greatly  interested  in  walking  about 
and  looking  at  the  different  sketches  made  from  so 
many  different  angles.  What  a  lot  of  difference  a 
few  inches  make ! 

I  was  introduced  to  a  number  of  the  young  stu- 
dents. They  all  seemed  intensely  in  earnest,  and 
talked  shop  all  the  time:  what  the  instructor  had 
said  about  this,  and  what  he  had  said  about  that. 
None  of  them  seemed  to  have  an  optimistic  opinion 
of  her  own  efforts;  indeed  all  seemed  a  little  de- 
pressed over  their  work;  a  little  of  the  wind  had  evi- 
dently been  taken  out  of  their  sails  by  that  professor, 
whoever  he  was.  This  may,  or  may  not  have  been 
true,  but  it  seemed  so  to  me. 

I  presume  the  richness  of  the  art  all  about  them 
has  a  certain  tendency  to  depress  as  well  as  to  stimu- 
late.     It  creates  that  impalpable  something  called 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  95 

"atmosphere,"  undoubtedly,  but  at  the  same  time  it 
is  fairly  obvious  that  the  glories  and  wonders  of  this 
world  of  art  may  be  almost  overwhelming  to  those 
who  aspire  to  follow. 

In  company  with  a  number  of  others,  we  went  to 
lunch  at  one  of  the  Duval  places,  where  many  stu- 
dents go  for  luncheon.  Upon  entering,  one  is  at 
once  presented  with  a  printed  menu,  the  prices  of  all 
dishes  set  out  at  one  side,  upon  which  the  waitress 
marks  one's  order  as  soon  as  it  is  given.  Thus  one 
always  knows  exactly  what  has  to  be  paid, — he  can 
keep  tab  on  his  score.  If  one  wants  a  napkin,  that 
is  extra.  Everything  is  spotlessly  clean,  and  the 
food  is  excellent,  although  extremely  reasonable  in 
price. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  loneliness  that  I  began 
once  more  to  go  about  by  myself, — to  see,  and  look 
at  whatever  happened  for  the  moment  to  strike  my 
fancy;  to  indulge  my  moods,  and  to  turn  up  my  nose 
and  make  faces  at  the  things  I  didn't  like.  I  missed 
the  Whatleys  sadly,  but,  at  the  same  time  I  realized 
that  a  person  can  see  many  things  when  all  alone: 
thought  is  not  disturbed  by  conversation, — the  in- 
terior sense  is  stronger.  One  should  always  look 
at  pictures  alone. 

I  would  often  walk  down  to  the  river,  not  far 
away,  and  stand  there,  leaning  over  the  embank- 
ment, and  watch  the  washerwomen  in  the  long,  low 
buildings  along  the  Seine,  where  they  work,  wash- 
ing and  pounding  and  beating  their  linen  all  day 
long.     Seeing  no  signs  of  factories  or  mills,  no  tall 


96  PARIS 

chimneys,  no  black,  spiraling  curls  of  smoke,  I  asked 
Monsieur  Frangais  one  day  how  all  the  people  lived, 
how  they  earned  a  living,  and  so  on.  His  answer 
was: 

"Oh,  they  wash  each  other's  linen!" 

And  after  a  time,  it  did  not  seem  to  have  been 
such  a  foolish  answer,  for  in  all  directions  are  to 
be  seen  the  signs  of  laundries:  "Blanchisserie"  here, 
"Blanchisserie"  there,  everywhere, — and  they  do 
very  beautiful  work  at  very  small  prices.  No  wonder 
the  French  women  can  wear  such  "dainty  clothing! 
They  do  not  have  to  spend  a  fortune  to  keep  it  clean. 
It  cost  me  only  ten  cents  to  have  shirtwaists  done  up 
in  exquisite  style.  I  could  buy  white  kid  gloves  for 
as  low  as  thirty  cents,  and  get  them  cleaned  for  two 
cents. 

Sometimes  I  would  just  prowl  about,  up  one 
street  and  down  another,  always  finding  much  to 
interest  me  in  the  everyday  life  of  the  people  about 
me :  servants  going  to  market  with  huge  baskets  on 
their  arms; — people  going  to  the  rotisseries  where 
already-cooked  food  could  be  had,  strings  of  chickens 
hanging  up  by  the  open  doorways,  a  great  canopied 
stove  about  six  feet  long,  filling  up  one  side  of  the 
shop,  birds  turning  over  and  over  on  long  spits 
placed  over  the  blazing  charcoal  fire. 

The  locality  in  which  I  now  found  myself  was  a 
beautiful  one,  with  lovely  houses  on  wide  tree-lined 
streets  in  all  directions;  not  a  sign  of  poverty  in  the 
whole  surrounding  neighborhood;  every  street 
straight  and  beautifully  clean.     Everything  was  ele- 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  97 

gant,  but  there  was  not  a  vestige  of  anything  pic- 
turesque. Wealth  and  elegance  do  not  seem  to  go 
hand  in  hand  with  picturesqueness,  I  must  admit 
that  modern  comforts  are  much  to  be  preferred, 
when  it  comes  right  down  to  the  point  of  actualities, 
but  the  old-time  houses  are  so  much  more  interest- 
ing,— to  look  at,  at  least. 

Only  two  or  three  blocks  away  was  the  Trocadero, 
which  fills  the  eye  with  its  huge  dimensions,  and 
whose  great  towers  I  had  so  often  seen  from  the 
river,  and  at  far  distances.  There  was  the  Rue  de 
Lubeck  to  be  explored,  and  the  Avenue  Kleber,  Ave- 
nue Henri  Martin,  Avenue  Victor  Hugo,  Avenue 
Marceau,  Place  d'lena,  Rue  Boissieri,  Rue  Mala- 
koff,  Rue  de  Chaillot,  the  Champs  Elysees, — all 
within  a  few  minutes'  walk  of  my  new  home.  Oh, 
yes!  and  the  residence  of  the  Countess  de  Castellane, 
nee  Anna  Gould,  in  the  Rue  Malakoff.  This  great 
palace,  of  a  pinkish  marble,  looks  more  like  an  art 
gallery  than  a  home;  but  it  is  beautiful. 

Just  a  few  steps  away  was  the  Guimet, — a  museum 
devoted  to  those  objects  which  best  illustrate  the  re- 
ligions of  the  far  East:  idols,  statuettes,  models,  ob- 
jects taken  from  temples,  votive  offerings  to  differ- 
ent gods,  jewels,  and  such  things.  Each  time,  I  came 
away  with  a  new  religion.  One  time,  I  was  a  Bud- 
dhist; another  time,  a  most  devoted  follower  of  Con- 
fucius; another,  a  follower  of  Tao,  or  a  full-fledged 
Brahmin.  One  can  choose  any  religion  he  likes,  for 
an  hour  or  two,  and  feel  none  the  worse  for  his 
change  of  view. 


98  PARIS 

The  small  building  is  itself  a  beauty, — a  little  gem 
set  in  its  green  surroundings  of  grass  and  trees, — 
a  fit  habitation  for  this  extremely  interesting  collec- 
tion. 

There  are  such  numbers  of  nursemaids,  most  won- 
derfully dressed.  Yards  of  ribbon  hang  from  their 
caps, — in  some  instances,  down  to  the  hem  of  their 
skirts, — of  the  brightest  and  most  joyous  shades  of 
red,  green,  blue,  yellow  and  combinations  of  colors: 
"Alsatian"  caps  they  are  called,  I  believe.  The 
nurses  wearing  gray  circular  cloaks  and  mob-caps, 
with  long  streamers  of  wide  ribbon  reaching  to  the 
bottom  of  their  skirts,  are  wet  nurses,  and  the  rib- 
bon costs  as  much  as  two  dollars  a  yard,  it  being 
manufactured  for  this  special  purpose :  red  for  a 
boy's  nurse,  and  blue  for  a  girl's.  They  add  a  cer- 
tain note  of  color  to  the  gray-and-green  thorough- 
fares that  is  very  pleasing  to  the  eye. 

These  things  may  all  be  commonplace,  but  the 
commonplace  things  of  Paris  were  all  so  many  new 
and  interesting  things  to  me,  as  they  were  being  seen 
for  the  first  time.  One  can  form  no  idea  of  the  dif- 
ference in  the  nursemaids  of  different  countries  until 
he  has  seen  them.  There  is  a  wide  difference  be- 
tween those  of  Holland  and  those  of  Paris. 

Everybody  at  the  pension  laughed  because  I  had 
found  anything  of  interest  in  the  fact,  and  were 
thoroughly  amused  at  an  American's  ideas  of  things. 
Each  evening  at  dinner  they  were  all  ready  for  my 
account  of  the  day's  sight-seeing.  Of  course,  they 
laughed — we  all  laughed.    They  were  always  telling 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  99 

me  how  to  see  this  and  how  to  go  about  seeing  that, 
and  many  times  would  go  with  me  to  make  sure  that 
I  would  see  whatever  it  happened  to  be  that  they 
wanted  me  to  see. 

I  do  not  have  the  pleasure  in  looking  at  the  houses 
of  Paris  that  I  had  in  looking  at  the  queer  old  houses 
of  the  Netherlands.  One  does  not  see  here  the 
stair-step  roofs  with  their  goggle-eyed  windows;  one 
sees  instead  the  steep  Mansard  roofs,  with  their  lace- 
like borders  of  iron  grill  work  and  their  pot  chim- 
neys. 

The  trees,  however,  compensate  for  much, — trees 
in  all  directions,  on  all  streets.  Perhaps  the  rich 
green  of  the  thousands  and  thousands  of  beautiful 
trees  that  line  the  streets  of  Paris,  appeals  as  much 
to  one's  sense  of  the  beautiful  as  anything  else  in 
the  whole  city;  and  I  believe  that  they  are  a  real  com- 
mercial commodity,  attracting  the  thousands  of  peo- 
ple who  love  to  come  here  to  spend  their  money, 
although,  from  all  accounts,  the  Parisians  them- 
selves have  not  always  appreciated  their  beauty  and 
commercial  value.  From  an  old  letter  written  in 
February  of  1848,  I  was  amazed  to  read  with  what 
disregard  the  people  treated  their  lovely  trees. 

There  is  hardly  a  tree  left  on  the  boulevards,  the  Champs 
Elysees  are  devastated,  the  Palais  Royal  much  injured  by  fire,  the 
Tuileries  gutted,  the  streets  pulled  up.  ...  I  walked  all  down 
the  boulevards  on  Monday,  and  never  saw  such  fearful  havoc. 
From  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  to  Montmartre  there  is  not  a  tree,  not 
a  column,  not  a  lamppost,  not  even  a  railing  left  standing.  Even 
the  wooden  shelters  of  the  coach  inspectors  are  lying  in  the  middle 
of  the  roadway,  charred  and  smouldering  ruins. 


ioo  PARIS 

The  mind  must  work  with  diligence  to  gain  any 
realization  of  such  a  condition,  when  to-day  every- 
thing looks  so  joyous,  and  the  green  trees  wave  in 
all  directions. 

Some  afternoons  I  would  take  my  little  silk  work- 
bag  and  go  to  the  Champs  Elysees  and  do  as  hun- 
dreds of  other  women  did, — sit  there,  under  the 
trees,  in  a  comfortable  boulevard  chair,  and  make 
"fancywork,"  keeping  an  eye  on  the  street  and  on 
my  busy,  chattering  neighbors.  Thousands  of  car- 
riages drove  by  every  afternoon  on  the  way  to  the 
Bois,  and  whether  one  knows  any  one  in  them  or 
not,  the  sight  is   an   interesting   and  amusing  one. 


CHAPTER  XI 

l'ile  de  la  cite,     the  conciergerie.     sainte 
chapelle.    notre  dame 

One  day  I  set  out  all  alone,  to  see  what  I  could, — 
and  what  I  might  enjoy, — of  the  small  island  in  the 
Seine  called  the  lie  de  la  Cite,  where  are  to  be  found 
most  of  the  buildings  devoted  to  government  pur- 
poses, to  the  administration  of  law,  order,  and  jus- 
tice,— all  under  the  shadow  of  the  Cathedral  of 
Notre  Dame.  Perchance  the  close  proximity  of 
the  miracle-working  Virgin  may  tend  to  temper  jus- 
tice with  mercy. 

As  this  little  island  was  in  reality  the  nucleus  of 
Medieval  Paris,  this  location  for  Government  build- 
ings may  perhaps  be  a  natural  one,  although  in  the 
present  day  it  seems  a  little  out  of  the  way.  How- 
ever, this  is  the  spot  upon  which  to  study  the  history 
of  the  town,  if  one  wants  to  indulge  in  that  pastime. 

The  Palace  of  Justice  itself  is  a  very  old  building 
(portions  of  it,  at  least),  but  one  would  never  think 
of  it  as  such,  with  its  fresh  white  curtains  draped  at 
the  windows,  as  in  a  private  home,  its  general  air  of 
freshness,  and  its  great  gilded  clock  that  never 
strikes  when  I  happen  to  be  near.     However,  it  is 

IOI 


102  PARIS 

in  fact  nearly  a  thousand  years  old;  indeed,  it  was 
an  old  building  long  before  we  were  even  discovered. 
I  suppose  there  must  have  been  quite  a  little  excite- 
ment when  the  news  was  heralded  up  and  down  these 
corridors  that  a  new  continent  had  been  discovered. 

Joining  on  to  it,  forming  a  long  unbroken  street 
line  along  the  Seine,  is  the  Conciergerie,  with  its 
conical-shaped  towers,  giving  the  place,  in  that  one 
spot,  a  medieval  appearance  that  is  at  once  attrac- 
tive and  repelling.  Poor  Marie  Antoinette!  I  do 
not  suppose  it  would  be  possible  for  one  to  look  at 
this  old  prison  without  thinking  of  the  poor,  ill-fated 
queen;  for  here  it  was,  in  a  miserable  little  cell,  that 
she  spent  her  last  days.  When  I  reached  the  place, 
I  found  that  I  might  not  go  in  unless  I  had  a  permit. 
I  was  disappointed,  and  suppose  I  must  have  looked 
as  I  felt,  for  an  officer  told  me  to  go  to  a  certain 
room  of  the  Prefecture  and  ask  for  a  permit,  and 
that  it  would  be  given  to  me,  but,  at  the  same  time, 
he  looked  as  if  he  were  not  quite  sure  of  it,  as  I  was 
a  lone  woman.  However,  I  had  the  courage  to  do 
as  he  advised,  although  I  dislike  prisons  of  every 
sort,  and  all  prison  officialism. 

When  I  opened  the  door  of  the  office  in  the  Pre- 
fecture and  went  in,  with  what  seemed  to  me  a  very, 
very  modest  request,  the  man  in  charge,  an  officer, — 
a  big  portly  man  with  pink  cheeks  and  dark  mus- 
taches, looked  at  me ;  then,  without  any  words, 
asked: 

"How  many?" 

When  I  said  I  only  wanted  one  wee  little  ticket, 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  103 

he  looked  up  at  me  again,  and  then  laughed, — 
laughed  loud  and  heartily, — and  gave  me  the  per- 
mit: about  half  a  foot  of  it.  I  at  once  went  back 
and  presented  it,  and  was  thus  enabled  to  see  all  that 
I  wanted  to  see  of  the  horrible  place.  One  feels  the 
atmosphere  strongly,  and  I  never  went  back  again. 

Most  of  the  revolutionary  prisoners  were  con- 
fined in  the  Conciergerie  before  their  heads  were 
finally  chopped  off  and  their  numbers  added  to  the 
score  of  the  "knitting  women." 

A  little  monument  has  been  placed  in  the  cell  of 
the  poor  queen. 

Her  room  was  the  third  door  on  entering  to  the  right  ...  it 
was  on  the  ground  floor,  the  window  opening  on  the  courtyard, 
which  was  crowded  all  day  with  prisoners,  who  looked  in  through 
the  glass  and  insulted  the  queen. 

The  first  cell  occupied  by  her  was  the  old  Council  Chamber  of 
the  Conciergerie,  but  after  the  plot  called  the  "Affair  of  the 
Carnation,"  she  was  removed  to  the  one  described  in  the  Diurnal 
of  Beaulieu,  under  date  of  October  16th,  1793,  (the  day  of  her 
execution)  as  the  most  damp,  unhealthy,  fetid  and  horrible  prison 
in  Paris. 

They  say  that  the  hackney-coach  which  brought  the  unfortunate 
queen  to  the  Conciergerie  was  filled  with  blood;  that  the  driver 
did  not  know,  but  that  he  suspected  whom  she  was,  having  had  to 
wait  a  long  time;  that  on  arriving  at  the  Conciergerie,  it  was  some 
time  before  they  alighted ;  that  the  man  got  out  first,  and  the 
woman  after;  that  she  supported  herself  on  his  arm,  and  that 
he  found   his  coach  all   filled  with  blood. 

What,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  had  they  done  to 
the  poor  queen?  One  does  nothing  but  exclaim: 
"Poor  Queen!" 

Mr.  E.  A.  Reynolds-Ball  says: 

To  none  of  the  numerous  prisons  of  the  Terror,  prolific  as  they 
are  in  tragic  and  pathetic  associations,  does  a  greater  sentimental 
interest   attach   than   to   the   dungeon   in    which   the   heroic   Marie 


104  PARIS 

Antoinette  spent  her  last  days.  After  a  captivity  of  nearly  a  year 
in  the  Temple,  the  ill-fated  queen  was  removed,  on  the  5th  of 
August,  1792,  to  a  dark  cell  in  the  basement  of  the  Tour  Bombee, 
lighted  from  the  courtyard  by  a  single  loophole  of  a  window. 
Here  watched  night  and  day  by  gendarmes,  she  remained  till 
October  15,  1793,  when  she  was  taken  before  the  Revolutionary 
Tribunal.  .  .  .  The  next  day  the  daughter  of  the  Cassars  left  her 
cell  forever,  to  be  conveyed  in  a  rough  trumbril  to  the  guillotine, 
on  the  Place  de  la  Concorde. 

This  historical  dungeon,  which  M.  Vitu  feelingly  declared 
"could  not  contain  the  tears  which  it  has  caused  to  be  shed,  and 
ought  to  have  been  walled  up  in  order  to  bury  the  memory  of  a 
crime  unworthy  of  the  French  nation,"  was  transformed  into  a 
Chapelle  Expiatoire  by  Louis  XVIII  in  1816.  .  .  .  The  Prison 
Chapel  adjoining  was  the  hall  of  the  Girondists,  in  which  this 
most  enlightened  party  of  the  revolutionists  are  said  to  have  cele- 
brated their  last  night  by  a  banquet. 

Right  next  to  Marie  Antoinette's  cell  is  the  one 
in  which  it  is  said  the  monster  Robespierre  spent  a 
short  time  before  they  took  him  out  for  the  final 
coincidence.  That  is  one  execution  that  fills  me  with 
a  barbarous  satisfaction. 

Through  the  small  windows  of  the  corridor  lead- 
ing to  the  cell  of  Marie  Antoinette  one  can  see  the 
stone  table  and  the  fountain  where  the  female  pris- 
oners went  to  make  their  toilettes.  It  is  still  used  as 
a  prison  for  criminals;  and  if  they  feel  anything  of 
the  history  of  the  place,  it  must  affect  them  in  any 
way  but  a  cheerful  one.  And  the  Morgue,  too,  not 
very  far  away! 

There  are  some  magnificent  apartments  still  to  be 
seen  in  the  Palace  of  Justice.  There  is  one  huge 
room,  paved  in  black  and  white  marble,  with  a 
vaulted  ceiling  of  painted  and  gilded  wood,  that  is 
well  worth  seeing.     It  is  known   as  the   "Salle  de 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  105 

Marbre."  The  Salle  des  Perdus  is  also  a  magnificent 
room  240  feet  long. 

Every  man  I  met  in  the  place  was  politeness  it- 
self, and  the  officer  who  admitted  me  talked  in  a 
very  pleasant  way,  but  I  confess  very  frankly  that 
I  should  not  like  to  be  taken  as  a  prisoner  and  placed 
there  in  solitary  confinement.  Think  of  all  the 
thoughts  that  might  crowd  in  upon  a  lone  prisoner 
in  that  place !  And  even  to-day,  it  is  still  a  prison, — 
a  prison  for  those  destined  for  the  assizes,  and  for 
those  who  have  been  condemned  to  death. 

Sainte  Chapelle  (the  Holy  Chapel),  adjoining  the 
Palace  of  Justice,  and  really  a  part  of  it,  once  wit- 
nessed all  those  horrors,  as  well  as  all  those  gorgeous 
pageants  and  ceremonies  that  took  place  when  roy- 
alty inhabited  the  Cite.  And  to-day  one  can  scarcely 
enter  its  precincts  without  the  mind  wandering  off, — 
far  away  from  the  jeweled  windows  and  gorgeous 
surroundings, — on  a  still  hunt  for  those  who  once, 
long  ago,  trod  these  spaces;  and  especially  for  him, 
the  saintly  king.  One  could  hardly  enter  here  and 
not  think  of  Saint  Louis,  although  we  can  see  him 
but  dimly,  half  hidden  as  he  is  by  the  mists  of  legend 
and  tradition.  Already  he  seems  half  mythical,  and 
the  descriptions  of  him  are  of  a  man  half  saint,  half 
man,  such  as  the  following  quotation: 

King  Louis  was  tall  of  stature,  with  a  spare  and  graceful 
figure;  his  face  was  of  angelic  sweetness,  with  eyes  as  of  a  dove, 
and  crowned  with  abundant  fair  hair.  As  he  grew  older,  he 
became  somewhat  bald  and  held  himself  slightly  bent.  "Never," 
says  Joinville,  when  describing  a  charge  led  by  the  king,  which 
turned  the  tide  of  battle,  "saw  I  so  fair  an  armed  man.  He 
seemed    to    sit    head    and    shoulders    above    all    his    knights.      His 


106  PARIS 

helmet  of  gold  was  most  fair  to  see,  and  a  sword  of  Allemain 
was  in  his  hand.  Four  times  I  saw  him  put  his  body  in  danger 
of  death  to  save  hurt  to  his  people." 

No  matter  what  he  really  looked  like,  this  is  a 
marvelously-wrought  jewel  that  he  has  given  to  man- 
kind, filling  one  with  some  subtle,  undefined  emotion. 
Buildings  influence  some  persons  as  music  or  colors 
do  other  persons.  Sometimes  the  dividing  line  seems 
to  be  very  faint;  one  can  almost, — but  not  quite, — 
catch  a  glimpse  of  what  lies  just  beyond  his  ken. 
Well,  no  matter;  they  are  not  here, — they  have  all 
gone, — even  the  sacred  relics !  And  we  can  come, 
Guide  Book  in  hand,  and  never  encounter  one  of 
them.    We  may  gaze  and  marvel  as  long  as  we  like. 

At  first  sight,  one  is  almost  dazzled  by  the  gor- 
geousness  of  the  light  falling  in  long  beams  through 
the  fifteen  fifty-foot  windows  of  the  Sainte  Chapelle, 
each  window  filled  with  the  most  magnificent,  jewel- 
like colored  glass,  containing  a  thousand  or  more 
complete  pictures.  It  seems  a  miracle.  The  stories 
told  in  this  beautiful  stained  glass  are  the  usual 
ones, — Old  and  New  Testament  stories, — one  win- 
dow being  devoted  to  the  story  of  the  finding  and 
translation  of  the  sacred  relics,  and  Crown  of 
Thorns,  and  a  portion  of  the  true  cross,  for  the  safe 
housing  of  which  Saint  Louis  had  the  Chapel  built. 
Here  is  poor  old  Saint  Denis,  walking  along,  non- 
chalantly carrying  his  head  in  his  hands,  much  as  a 
gentleman  of  to-day  might  carry  his  hat  if  his  head 
happened  to  need  a  little  fresh  air.  Saint  Sebastian 
seems  quite  resigned  to  his  arrows,  Saint  Lawrence 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  107 

to  his  gridiron,  and  Saint  Stephen  doubtless  under- 
stands, from  his  appearance  at  least,  that  those  hor- 
rible stones  are  only  painted.  But  the  gorgeousness 
is  beyond  mere  words. 

I  would  sometimes  go,  quite  alone,  and  spend  an 
hour  or  so  just  gazing  at  the  beauty  of  the  place, — 
at  the  unspeakable  beauty  of  the  great  rose  window; 
at  the  colored  shadows  across  the  floor, — reveling 
in  the  blue  and  begilded  atmosphere  that  floods  the 
whole  place. 

There  are  two  parts,  an  upper  and  a  lower.  The 
upper  room  is  dedicated  to  the  relics,  and  the  lower, 
to  the  Virgin.  I  prefer  the  one  dedicated  to  the 
relics,  although  they  are  now  over  in  Notre  Dame; 
at  least,  they  say — well,  let  us  believe !  What  dif- 
ference can  it  make  whether  they  are  there  or  not? 
One  feels  so  much  better  to  believe  everything. 

What  strange  things  are  told  of  these  relics — of 
their  power  to  work  cures  of  horrible  diseases  and 
so  on.  History  is  history;  if  we  believe  one  thing, 
why  not  the  other?  S.  S.  Beale  tells  of  one  curious 
thing: 

On  the  Good  Fridays  of  each  year  the  chapel  scarcely  sufficed 
to  contain  the  crowds  of  sick  persons  who  flocked  to  it  from  all 
parts  of  the  city.  All  maladies  were  supposed  to  be  curable 
through  the  virtues  of  the  holy  relics,  but  especially  that  known 
as  le  mal  caduc.  At  midnight  the  relic  of  the  True  Cross  was 
exposed,  and  at  the  same  moment  the  chapel  was  filled  by  the 
most  fearful  shrieks  of  these  poor  epileptics.  The  afflicted  threw 
themselves  about,  foamed  at  the  mouth  and  fell  into  convulsions, 
invoking  the  aid  especially  of  S.  John  the  Baptist  and  S.  Spire. 

The  people  were  convinced  every  year  that  some  wondrous 
miracle  had  been  wrought;  but  the  abuses  connected  with  this 
nocturnal  exposition  were  so  great  that,  in  1781,  Louis  XVI  ordered 
it  to  be  discontinued. 


io8  PARIS 

To  my  mind,  the  roof  is  almost  as  lovely  as  the 
chapel  itself,  with  its  airy,  lacelike  fleche,  its  spires 
and  angels,  and  its  quaint  gargoyles. 

A  curious  legend  is  related  in  connection  with  the  actual  design 
which  was  accepted  for  the  Holy  Chapel.  Two  of  the  candidates 
for  the  work  met  on  their  way  to  Paris,  at  an  Alpine  inn,  and 
the  younger,  an  enthusiastic  and  confiding  artificer,  showed  his 
plan  to  his  fellow-traveler,  who  preserved  silence  about  his 
own  plan.  .     . 

That  night  the  elder  of  the  two  attempted  to  murder  his  rival, 
stole  the  plan,  and  set  off  for  Paris  early  the  next  morning.  King 
Louis  was  delighted  with  the  design,  and  entrusted  this  unknown 
artist  with  the  task  of  building  the  chapel.  When  it  was  finished 
the  architect  retired  secretly  to  a  monastery,  in  order  to  expiate 
his  heinous  crime. 

The  actual  designer  became  mad,  and,  some  years  afterward, 
wandered  to  Paris;  whereupon,  seeing  the  realization  of  his  plan 
in  stone,  he  suddenly  recovered  his  reason.  It  was,  however, 
too  late;  his  story  was  discredited,  and  the  unfortunate  architect 
died  in  obscurity. 

Rest  to  his  troubled  soul!  We  will  revel  in  its 
beauty,  no  matter  who  designed  it.  History  says 
that  Pierre  de  Montereau  designed  it. 

These  wonderful  churches!  How  can  they  be 
described?  Mr.  T.  Okey,  in  speaking  of  the  so- 
called  Dark  Ages,  says: 

Within  and  without,  the  temples  of  God  were  resplendent  with 
silver  and  gold,  with  purple  and  crimson  and  blue;  the  saintly 
figures  and  solemn  legends  on  their  porches;  the  capitals,  the 
columns,  the  groins  of  the  vaultings  were  lustrous  with  color 
and  gold.  Each  window  was  a  complex  of  jeweled  splendor: 
the  pillars  and  walls  were  painted  or  draped  with  lovely  tapestries 
and  gorgeous  banners;  the  shrines  and  altars  glittered  with  pre- 
cious stones, — jasper  and  sardius  and  chalcedony,  sapphire  and 
emerald,  chrysolite  and  beryl,  topaz  and  amethyst  and  pearl. 
The  church  illuminated  her  sacred  books  with  exquisite  painting, 
bound  them  with  precious  fabrics,  and  clasped  them  with  silver 
and  gold;  the  robes  of  her  priests  and  ministrants  were  rich  with 
embroideries. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  109 

I  was  always  trying  to  make  myself  think  that  I 
liked  the  Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame.  So  much  has 
been  said  and  written  of  it  that  I  felt  foolish, — that 
there  must  be  something  wrong  with  me,  through  and 
through, — that  I  could  not  care  for  it.  I  said  to  my- 
self: 

"Come,  my  child;  let  us  reason  together." 

But  I  did  not  like  it.  I  went  dozens  of  times,  al- 
ways with  the  idea  that  I  would  like  it  in  time;  but 
I  never  overcame  a  certain  dislike  of  that  great  and 
glorious  cathedral.  There  were  times  when  it  seemed 
beautiful  and  wonderful  to  me;  but  that  spirit  of 
sacredness,  of  something  holy  and  mysterious,  which 
was  so  strongly  felt  in  other  cathedrals,  was,  some- 
how or  other,  missing.  I  could  not  create  it  for 
myself. 

Notre  Dame  is,  as  we  all  know,  a  great  and  mag- 
nificent cathedral,  but  for  some  reason  it  never  pos- 
sessed any  attraction  for  me.  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that  the  proximity  of  that  dreadful  Morgue 
just  behind  it  had  something  to  do  with  this  antip- 
athy. In  the  rear  of  the  cathedral,  the  Morgue! 
Near  the  west  gallery  entrance,  the  horrible,  un- 
speakably repulsive  statue  of  Etienne  Yver  being  de- 
voured by  worms  while  two  saints  seem  to  be  making 
some  very  feeble  attempt  to  save  him !  and,  away  up 
on  the  top,  those  devilish  gargoyles  leering  over  the 
city,  frightening  away  the  good  spirits  that  might  feel 
any  inclination  to  take  up  their  habitation  in  the 
place,  and  send  their  beneficent  influence  far  down 
below!     Much  incense  would  be  required  to  dissipate 


no  PARIS 

the  combined  influence  of  so  many  malignant  spirits. 

The  exterior  was  much  more  pleasing  to  me  than 
the  interior;  there  was  light  and  air  outside,  and, 
too,  one  could  run  if  one  got  "scared."  It  may  be 
that  some  influence  of  the  Temple  of  Reason  still 
lingers  about  the  church,  when  the  sculptures  were 
all  spoiled  and  mutilated;  when  the  image  of  the 
Virgin  was  replaced  by  the  one  of  "Liberty."  Lib- 
erty is  all  very  good  in  its  place,  but  every  right  has 
its  own  limitations. 

Ah,  the  stained  glass  of  the  windows!  That  is 
beautiful !  I  was  going  to  say  something  about 
those  windows  at  Brussels;  but  what  is  the  use  of 
comparisons,  except  to  spoil  things?  One  could  not 
fail  to  admire  the  great  rose  window  over  the  front 
entrance.  Forty-two  and  one-half  feet  of  most  gor- 
geous colors,  casting  their  red,  green,  blue  and 
golden  reflections  across  the  somber  grayness  of  the 
great  floor,  in  a  dazzling  circle  of  lights!  The  rose 
windows  of  the  northern  and  southern  transepts  are 
just  as  gorgeous,  but  the  beaming  sunshine  enters 
there  with  rather  more  reluctance  than  it  does 
through  the  great  western  window. 

Viollet  le  Due,  "the  great  architect,  has  described 
how  his  passion  for  Gothic  was  stirred  when,  taken 
as  a  boy  to  Notre  Dame,  the  rose  window  of  the 
south  seized  upon  his  imagination.  While  gazing 
at  it  the  organ  began  to  play,  and  he  thought  that 
the  music  came  from  the  window — the  shrill,  high 
notes  from  the  light  colors,  and  the  solemn,  bass 
notes  from  the  dark  and  more  subdued  hues." 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  in 

I  would  often  go,  and  just  wander  idly  about, 
looking  at  whatever  happened  to  interest  me  at  the 
moment,  inhaling  the  incense,  and  thinking  of  the 
many  things,  tales  and  legends,  that  I  had  heard  in 
connection  with  this  church  of  "Our  Lady." 

The  miracle-working  statue  of  Our  Lady  of  Paris, 
which  stands  just  at  the  intersection  of  the  southern 
transept  with  the  nave,  is  lovely, — a  beautiful  woman, 
tall  and  stately,  suggesting  a  queen  rather  than  a 
Madonna,  a  sweet,  benign  expression  on  her  lovely 
face, — is  generally  surrounded  by  bunches  of  glim- 
mering candles.  Come  in  on  a  dark  day,  and  there 
she  stands,  the  glittering,  fluttering  tapers  all  about 
her;  and  afar  off,  through  the  haze  of  incense,  one 
sees  the  high  altar  whereon  dozens  of  candles  are 
smoking  and  gleaming  through  the  gloom.  If  I 
could  like  Notre  Dame  at  all,  it  would  be  on  a  dull 
day.  It  is  interesting  to  note  the  immense  personal 
popularity  of  some  Virgins,  and  Our  Lady  is  un- 
doubtedly one  of  the  popular  ones. 

Another  time,  on  a  gloriously  bright  day,  I  went 
in.  I  heard  the  great  organ  for  the  first  time.  Music 
makes  a  great  difference  in  one's  devotion.  The  sun 
sent  down  long,  quivering  shafts  of  light  through  the 
many-colored  windows,  and  a  golden  splendor 
seemed  to  envelop  the  whole  place,  making  the 
candles  about  the  wonderful  Virgin  mere  points  of 
silvery  lights  through  the  long  distance.  Candles 
were  lighted  in  many  of  the  thirty-seven  chapels, 
it  being  evidently  a  feast  day  of  some  kind. 

There  was  one  thing  that  occurred  here  in  the 


ii2  PARIS 

year  1728 — a  curious  thing,  containing  many  ele- 
ments of  the  humorous,  if  one  can  overlook  the  seri- 
ousness of  its  results: 

Some  scaffoldings  erected  for  the  purpose  of  repairing  the  roof 
afforded  a  gang  of  daring  thieves  the  means  of  concealing  them- 
selves among  the  rafters.  At  the  first  versicle  of  the  Second 
Psalm  of  the  Vesper  Service,  the  signal  agreed  upon,  they  dropped 
a  number  of  beams,  planks,  and  tools  from  the  top  of  the  roof 
down  into  the  midst  of  the  throng  below;  at  the  same  instant 
their  colleagues  stationed  near  the  different  doors  set  up  a  shout 
that  the  roof  was  falling,  and  in  the  terrible  panic  and  confusion 
that  followed,  stole  quantities  of  snuff-boxes,  watches,  rings,  and 
other  jewels.  So  great  was  the  crush  that  upwards  of  four  hun- 
dred persons,  either  injured  or  knocked  insensible,  had  to  be 
provided  with  hastily-improvised  litters  and  looked  after  in  the 
Parvis  Notre  Dame. 

The  thieves  meanwhile  got  off  safely  with  their  booty  that  time, 
but  it  is  supposed  that  they  belonged  to  the  celebrated  band  of 
Cartouche,  all  of  whom  were  executed  on  the  Place  de  Greve 
some  years  later. 

It  would  seem  almost  unjust  to  execute  men  who 
could  work  such  a  scheme  as  that. 

The  coronation  of  Napoleon,  as  described  by 
Thiers  in  "Histoire  de  l'Empire,"  would  make  any 
one  who  was  not  a  Catholic  grin : 

On  the  altar  had  been  already  placed  the  crown,  the  scepter, 
the  sword,  and  the  robes.  The  Pope  anoints  the  forehead  of 
Napoleon  with  the  holy  oil,  then  blesses  the  sword  and  scepter, 
and  draws  near  to  place  the  crown  on  his  head.  Napoleon,  ob- 
serving his  intention,  decidedly,  but  without  brusquerie,  takes  the 
crown  from  the  hands  of  the  Pope  and  places  it  himself  on  his 
head. 

This  act,  whose  significance  was  understood  by  all  taking  part 
in  the  ceremony,  produced  an  indescribable  effect.  Then  Napoleon, 
taking  the  crown  of  the  Empress  in  his  hands,  approaches  Jose- 
phine, who  was  kneeling  before  the  throne,  and  places  it  with 
manifest  tenderness  on  the  head  of  his  consort,  who  at  that 
moment  burst  into  tears.  Then  Napoleon  ascended  the  imperial 
throne,  his  brother  holding  the  hem  of  his  robes. 

The    Pope,    according    to    usage,    proceeds    to    the    foot    of    the 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  113 

throne  to  bless  the  newly-crowned  sovereign  and  entoned  those 
lines  which  had  resounded  in  Charlemagne's  ears  in  Saint  Peter's 
when  the  clergy  of  Rome  had  suddenly  proclaimed  him  Emperor 
of  the  West,  "Vivat  in  aeternum  semper  Augustus!"  Thereupon 
cries  of  "Vive  l'Empereur!"  a  thousand  times  repeated,  rang 
through  the  aisles  of  Notre  Dame;  and  at  the  same  instant  salvos 
of  artillery  announced  to  all  Paris  the  solemn  moment  when 
Napoleon  was  consecrated. 

Napoleon,  it  seems,  was  really  crowned  by  him- 
self and  not  by  the  Pope. 

The  three  great  entrances  are  all  outlined  with 
sculptures, — the  one  in  the  center  being  outlined  by 
figures  representing  the  Last  Judgment.  I  do  not 
object  to  the  twenty-eight  Kings  of  Israel  and  Judah 
standing  there  in  a  row  on  the  front  of  the  cathedral, 
but  I  do  object  to  the  horrible  gargoyles, — hideous 
monsters  of  unclassified  animals, — perched  about, 
over  the  walls  and  towers.  Why  should  they 
be  on  a  church?  They  represent  devils,  birds  of 
prey,  dragons,  wild  animals  of  all  kinds,  many  of 
them  half-man  and  half-beast,  and  nearly  all  of 
them  are  depicted  with  gaping  jaws.  One,  more 
horrible  than  some  of  the  others,  is  in  the  act  of 
tearing  a  rabbit  limb  from  limb;  another  is  crunch- 
ing a  poor  little  mouse;  one  devil  has  stuck  his 
teeth  into  the  back  of  a  smaller  devil  and  is  carrying 
him  away.  Hideous  monsters  they  are;  but  I  notice 
that  they  are  on  a  number  of  churches  in  Paris;  that 
they  are  a  part  of  the  drainage  system. 

The  flying  buttresses  would  naturally  arrest  the 
attention  of  any  one  who  had  never  seen  any  before. 
When  I  first  saw  them,  I  just  stood  and  gaped. 
What   mysterious   looking   things, — like    a    row   of 


ii4  PARIS 

great  arms  stretched  out  and  then  curved  upwards, 
to  hold  the  church  and  keep  it  from  falling!  Seen 
by  moonlight,  from  across  the  river,  the  effect  is  ex- 
quisitely beautiful;  the  whole  becomes  invested  with 
a  majesty  whose  influence  never  quite  fades  from  the 
mind. 

Even  the  great  space  before  the  cathedral  I  do 
not  like, — the  "Parvis  Notre  Dame," — it  still  sug- 
gests executions  and  criminals,  as  well  as  untold  num- 
bers of  innocent  victims.  They  used  to  bring  the 
condemned  here  before  their  execution,  and  force 
them  to  tell  the  public  how  sorry  they  were  for  their 
crimes.  Saints  and  angels  defend  us!  If  guilty, 
the  only  sorrow  would  be  because  of  discovery,  and 
not  for  the  act  committed,  and  who  could  blame 
them?  That  kind  of  sorrow  doesn't  count  for  any- 
thing. 

Every  one  said  I  must  be  sure  to  climb  to  the 
tower.  Heaven  forgive  me, — I  did !  The  view  is, 
of  course,  all  that  is  claimed  for  it, — beautiful.  One 
can  see  all  Paris,  when  there  is  not  too  much  haze. 
I  should  advise  every  one  to  make  sure  of  that 
before  the  climb  is  made,  for  it  is  no  easy  task.  The 
gargoyles  again !  From  what  strange  realm  did  the 
artist  secure  his  models  for  those  awful  creatures? 
There  are  over  two  thousand  of  them,  and  no  two 
are  exactly  alike.  I  like  very  much  what  S.  S.  Beale 
has  said  of  these  creatures: 

The  exterior  decoration  of  Notre  Dame  is  very  rich.  Gargoyles, 
monsters  of  the  most  grotesque  type,  called  also  tarasques  and 
magots,  are  there,  encircling  the  towers,  and  disputing  their  im- 
portance with   the  Angel   of  the  Judgment.     The  monsters  stand, 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  115 

as  they  did  centuries  ago,  gazing  down  upon  Paris  and  its  doings 
for  good  or  for  evil.  Think  of  the  events  they  have  witnessed 
from  the  burning  of  fifty-four  Templars  in  a  slow  fire  by  Philippe 
IV.,  to  the  horrors  of  the  Commune.  They  must  have  seen  the 
flaming  villages  and  chateaux  during  the  Jacquerie,  and  witnessed 
those  useless  sorties  during  the  last  war,  when  the  Parisians 
vainly  endeavored  to  escape  from  the  city  and  gain  one  of  the 
outside  army  corps.  They  seem  to  look  down  in  scorn  upon 
humanity — .  .  .  and  all  the  ages  through,  the  brutes  have  had 
the  same  expression  of  scorn,  of  spite,  of  diabolical  ugliness,  that 
one  feels  it  to  be  a  comfort  that  they  are  fixed  safely  to  the 
gallery  of  the  towers,  out  of  the  way  of  working  mischief. 

But  that  is  Paris.  The  whole  history  of  the  city 
fairly  bubbles  with  the  amusing,  with  romance;  and 
perhaps  this  it  is  that  takes  the  horror  from  all  its 
grimmest  tragedies.  One  settles  down  to  study  the 
history  of  a  church,  of  a  monument,  of  a  locality, — 
of  what  not? — and  up  bobs  some  gargoyle,  some  bit 
of  romance  or  tomfoolery  that  throws  the  couleur 
de  rose  over  it  all,  and  we  forget  the  disagreeable 
in  our  contemplation  of  the  gargoyle,  or  the  ro- 
mance, or  some  mirth-producing  episode.  Death, 
bloodshed,  riot,  war, — who  could  connect  them  with 
\otre  Dame  as  we  see  it  to-day?  Yet  they  are  all 
tightly  linked  with  its  long  history. 


CHAPTER  XII 

OLD  PARISIAN  STREETS.      JEAN  VALJEAN 

Some  days  I  would  take  an  adventurous  plunge 
into  the  unknown, — would  simply  board  a  tram  and 
ride  until  I  came  to  some  spot  or  street  that  seemed 
to  offer  opportunities  for  exploration  and  investiga- 
tion, or  to  some  point  of  which  I  had  heard  or  read. 

I  had  often  heard  of  the  interesting  streets  in  the 
older  parts  of  Paris,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  find 
some  of  them  and  see  them  for  myself.  To  see 
things  for  oneself, — that  is  the  thing! 

One  day  I  took  a  tram,  mounted  to  the  hurricane- 
deck,  went  out  on  the  Boulevard  Saint  Germain,  and 
there  I  sat,  looking  at  the  long  rows  of  tall,  fine 
old  houses,  which  were  once  (and  still  are,  I  believe) 
the  homes  of  members  of  the  aristocratic  old  fami- 
lies. The  exteriors  do  not  tell  much  to  the  casual 
visitor;  one  must  turn  to  history  and  romance  to 
know  what  the  interiors  are  like.  Here  and  there 
I  recognized  some  house  that  had  been  made  famous, 
or  at  least  of  interest,  from  the  accounts  given  to 
us  by  historians  and  different  writers  of  novels  or 
romances. 

At  Saint  Germain  des  Pres,  I  left  the  tram,  and 
started  in  to  just  prowl  about,  to  wherever  my  fancy 

116 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  117 

happened  to  dictate.  All  about  this  lonely-looking 
old  church  of  a  bygone  time  are  dozens  of  little,  nar- 
row, shadowy  streets,  lined  with  queer  old  houses, 
tall  and  lean,  with  big  square  chimneys,  capped  by 
the  long,  black  chimney-pots  that  crown  their  roofs. 

Here  were  numbers  of  streets  of  which  I  had 
sometimes  read;  one  picturesque  little  street  was 
called  the  "Cour  de  Rohan"  (Rouen)  not  far  from 
Saint  Germain  des  Pres.  Old  mansions  with  high, 
steep  roofs  were  all  along  the  street,  their  timeworn 
faces  all  weather-stained,  but  still  looking  on  bravely 
at  the  life  that  paraded  itself  before  their  long,  nar- 
row, doorlike  windows,  and  making  an  effort  to  ap- 
pear as  young  as  ever,  by  decorating  them  with  gay 
geraniums  in  low  boxes  placed  in  the  windows, — the 
poor  old  gray  houses  all  mixed  up  with  the  fresh, 
lovely  young  flowers. 

Some  of  these  old  houses  have  faces,  very  expres- 
sive faces, — faces  which  one  instinctively  likes  or 
dislikes,  faces  that  go  straight  to  the  heart. 

It  is  very  quiet  and  tranquil  back  here  in  these 
long-ago  streets.  It  doesn't  seem  at  all  like  Paris, — 
like  one's  preconceived  ideas  of  Paris;  but  to  see 
this  old  part,  over  here  across  the  river,  is  to  see 
something  of  what  the  city  once  was  like,  and  to 
come  time  and  time  again  to  visit  it.  I  walked  on 
and  on.  People  passed  me,  looked  at  me,  but  never 
a  word  was  said  to  me.  Sometimes  I  would  turn 
around  to  stare  after  some  one  who  had  passed  me, 
only  to  find  him  or  her  doing  the  same  thing.  Dread- 
ful! 


n8  PARIS 

Near  by  I  ran  into  another  old  street  (more  like 
an  inner  court  of  some  monster  mansion  than  a  real 
public  thoroughfare)  of  which  I  had  often  read, — 
the  Passage  du  Commerce.  It  was  filled  with  the 
same  style  of  high  old  houses,  from  the  windows  of 
which  dangled  strings  of  clothes  hung  out  to  air  (it 
must  have  been  for  air,  as  the  clothes  had  not  been 
washed) .  A  red  blanket  here,  a  bunch  of  something 
blue  or  green  there,  gave  to  the  place  a  picturesque 
appearance  that  was  extremely  satisfying  to  the  eye. 

Every  once  in  a  while  I  would  come  across  a  cart 
backed  up  against  an  old  stone  wall,  filled  with  fruits 
or  vegetables  and,  in  a  few  instances,  with  old  clothes 
for  sale.  Generally  the  proprietors  were  old  ladies 
of  very  unattractive  appearance  and  uncertain  age, 
who  never  hesitated  to  offer  their  wares  to  any  one 
coming  along  the  street,  with  a  persistence  'that 
sometimes  was  amusing, — to  a  mere  onlooker. 

These  old  streets  are  so  full  of  history  and  his- 
torical traditions  that  one  feels  almost  as  if  she  were 
treading  on  sacred  ground.  A  whole  volume, — 
many  perhaps, — could  be  written  of  them;  of  who 
lived  here,  in  this  tall  old  mansion,  or  of  who  once 
lived  in  that  strange,  quiet  old  place,  surrounded  by 
its  walled  garden. 

Not  far  from  Saint  Germain,  on  a  little  street 
called  Rue  de  Sevres,  is  the  old  house  in  which 
Madame  Recamier  lived  during  the  time  she  was 
holding  her  immortal  salons.  One  has  an  inclina- 
tion to  go  and  ring  the  old  door-bell  and  inquire  if 
Madame  is  "at  home,"  but — she  is  not  there.     All 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  119 

that  remains  are  her  painted  likenesses  and  remi- 
niscences, and  we  must  pass  on. 

I  once  ran  into  another  lovely  old  street, — the  Rue 
du  Parcheminerie, — not  far  from  the  Boulevard 
Saint  Germain,  running  from  the  pretty  Rue  de  la 
Harpe  to  the  Rue  Saint  Jacques:  a  lovely  old-world 
street,  with  the  same  kind  of  high,  narrow  old 
houses,  with  their  faded  green-shuttered  windows.  I 
do  not  know  that  it  has  any  "reputation"  whatever, 
or  that  "anybody"  ever  lived  in  it,  but  I  liked  it  for 
itself,  for  its  quaint,  quiet,  well-bred,  old-world  ap- 
pearance. I  loved  to  wander  about  the  little  old 
street,  with  its  faded  houses  and  quietude, — its  lone- 
ly lanterns  and  flagstone  pavements. 

Another  attractive  old  street  filled  with  high, 
narrow  houses  was  the  Rue  du  Jardinet;  then  I  came 
upon  the  Rue  Serpente,  a  narrow,  winding  street, 
and  dozens  of  others.  One  could  spend  days  in 
wandering  about  and  ruminating  upon  what  has 
been.  The  invocation  of  the  gray,  fading  Past,  one 
of  the  most  exquisitely  subtle  pleasures  of  the  mind, 
is  quite  possible  to  any  one  who  spends  a  little  time 
in  rambling  about  these  old  streets,  looking  at  these 
old  houses  of  a  bygone  Paris.  In  some  of  them,  it 
is  a  comparatively  easy  matter  to  call  up,  once  more, 
the  splendors  of  the  past,  and  close  out  altogether 
the  sense  of  modern  life.  In  many  of  them,  the 
venerable  appearance  of  the  timeworn  buildings, 
and  the  silence  of  the  long  narrow  spaces,  readily 
lend  themselves  to  such  a  mental  pleasure.  A  cul- 
tured, or  an  imaginative  mind,  may  find  ample  cause 


120  PARIS 

for  emotion  at  almost  every  turn,  for  on  almost  all 
sides  the  personages  of  history  or  fiction  seem  to 
spring  out  from  the  long  silences  to  greet  us.  One 
feels  continually  as  though  some  of  these  characters 
were  peeping  from  behind  the  faded  green  shutters, 
and  wondering  what  we  are  doing  down  there  in 
the  streets. 

On  the  Boulevard  Saint  Germain  is  a  great  statue 
of  Danton,  which  one  cannot  pass  without  being 
reminded  of  the  Reign  of  Terror,  and  that  it  was 
in  this  very  neighborhood  that  he  lived — in  the 
Rue  des  Cordeliers.  So  did  Marat;  but  one  would 
have  to  have  unlimited  time  if  he  wanted  to  follow 
them  all  up  and  listen  to  the  tales  that  they  might 
have  to  tell.  What  a  long  vista  of  terrible  events 
the  very  sight  of  this  statue  calls  up  to  the  mind! 
When  informed  of  his  death  sentence,  Danton  re- 
plied to  his  grim  messenger: 

"My  dwelling  will  shortly  be  in  nothingness.  As 
to  my  name,  you  will  find  it  in  the  Pantheon  of  His- 
tory." And  he  might  have  added,  "and  my  statue 
in  the  Boulevard  Saint  Germain." 

But  as  one  thinks  upon  these  things,  up  bobs  some- 
thing amusing  that  causes  us  to  banish  them  into  the 
mists  that  already  begin  to  close  over  many  of  the 
tragedies  of  that  time.  The  radiant  attractions  of 
history, — especially  of  French  history, — would  lose 
much  if  all  were  minutely  explained,  and  the  things 
doubtful  gain  much  by  our  ability  to  cover  them  with 
the  glamor  of  legends  and  that  elusive  something 
called  "sentiment." 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  121 

Queer  old  inns  abound,  too,  but  I  could  never  find 
sufficient  courage  to  enter  them  all  alone.  My  com- 
panions at  the  pension  threw  up  their  hands  in  hor- 
ror, figuratively  speaking,  at  the  audacity  of  my 
prowling  about  in  "such  localities"  alone.  One  small 
English  woman  said: 

"Are  you  dreadful  Americans  never  afraid  of 
anything?  Just  fancy  walking  about  quite  alone 
over  there!" — shaking  her  head  toward  the  river 
side  of  the  house. 

I  was  surprised;  I  had  not  had  the  slightest  fear 
or  apprehension;  it  had  not  entered  my  head  that 
there  was  anything  to  be  afraid  of, — that  there  might 
be  any  danger  lurking  in  the  open  streets  of  Paris, 
even  though  they  were  narrow  and  crooked;  and  I 
must  confess  that  I  saw  nothing  whatsoever  to  dis- 
concert anybody  in  these  nice,  tranquil  old  streets, 
picturesque  houses,  and  quiet,  well-mannered  people. 
I£  these  old  places  really  had  bad  reputations,  they 
truly  succeed  in  concealing  them  in  the  modest,  de- 
cent faces  which  they  present  to  the  passing  stranger. 

I  went  about  in  that  vicinity  many,  many  times, 
and  never  was  troubled  or  molested  in  any  way  by 
anybody.  People  sometimes  looked  at  me,  perhaps 
because  I  seemed  to  be  so  aimless;  but  I  should  not 
have  known  it  had  I  not  been  looking  at  them  also. 

I  believe  wide  streets  and  grand  boulevards  are 
destructive  to  the  artistic  impulse.  The  brilliant  per- 
sonages of  French  history, — the  great  artists,  mu- 
sicians,— seldom  lived  in  wide  thoroughfares.    They 


122  PARIS 

were  nearly  always  to  be  found  in  the  small,  narrow, 
friendly,  picturesque  old  streets. 

My  enjoyment  in  wandering  about  was  so  con- 
tagious that  I  seldom  ever  had  an  opportunity  after- 
wards to  go  alone, — all  my  fellow  pensionnaires 
wanted  to  visit  these  localities  too.  I  stumbled  upon 
places, — beautiful  old  streets  and  fine  old  houses, — 
of  which  these  people,  who  had  lived  for  many 
years  in  Paris,  had  never  even  heard.  However,  I 
had  not  really  discovered  anything, — I  was  walking 
in  the  footprints  of  others, — I  simply  remembered 
the  many  things  I  had  heard  and  read. 

Another  old  street  that  is  teeming  with  remi- 
niscences of  the  past  is  the  Rue  Visconti,  very  near  to 
the  School  of  Fine  Arts.  It  is  so  narrow  that  two 
carriages  could  not  possibly  pass  each  other,  and 
the  sidewalks  are  scarcely  wide  enough  for  one  per- 
son; the  other  always  walks  out  in  the  street. 

Here  high  old  houses  snuggle  close  up  to  each 
other,  in  a  friendly,  neighborlike  way  that  might  be 
very  appealing  were  it  not  for  the  suspicion  that  they 
gossip.  What  things  they  might  tell  each  other,  be- 
hind the  heavy  green  wooden  shutters  that  screen 
nearly  all  of  the  long,  narrow  windows !  What  they 
might  tell  of  Jean  Racine,  who,  once  upon  a  time, 
lived  in  one  of  these  tall  old  houses;  of  Balzac;  of 
Adrienne  Lecouvreur,  the  beloved  of  long  ago,  in 
whom  Voltaire  declared  that  he  had  found  an  ideal 
intellectual  companion.  "The  fine  old  mansion  at 
No.  115  Rue  de  Grenelle,  next  to  the  southeast  cor- 
ner of  Rue  de  Bourgogne,  covers  her  grave." 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  123 

The  place  is  teeming  with  phantoms;  one  might 
see  them, — just  catch  a  glimpse  of  some  gray, 
shadowy  form  flitting  through  the  street,  or  whisk- 
ing around  some  corner,  or  ringing  one  of  the  dull- 
looking  old  doorbells,  if  one  could  come  at  the 
psychological  moment. 

There  are  some  curious  old,  four-sided  lanterns 
hanging  over  some  of  the  doorways,  and  occasion- 
ally a  door  is  opened  wide  enough  to  let  one  get  a 
peep  at  a  spot  of  garden  in  the  rear  of  some  of  the 
houses.  There  may  be  gardens  in  the  rear  of  them 
all,  but  I  do  not  know. 

Prowling  about  the  Boulevard  Vaugirard  one 
day,  we  came  to  a  lonely-looking  little  street  in  south- 
ern Paris,  known  as  the  Rue  Plumet.  Readers  of 
"Les  Miserables"  will  recall  that  it  was  in  this  street 
that  Jean  Valjean  lived,  in  his  old  house  with  its 
walled-in  garden,  with  Cosette  and  the  old  house- 
keeper, after  he  left  the  Picpus  Convent.  What  a 
lonely  part  of  Paris!  Hardly  a  person  was  in  sight, 
and  we  walked  quietly  along,  looking  in  at  numbers 
of  walled-in  gardens  with  lonely-looking  old  houses 
set  far  back;  there  were  many  of  them  in  this  vicin- 
ity.    This  is  also  not  far  from  the  Institut  Pasteur. 

We  did  not  limit  ourselves,  but  went  often,  far 
from  the  lines  of  busy  travel,  and  came  bumping  into 
allkinds  of  strange  quarters. 

Mrs.  Harmon  and  I  walked  and  walked  one  day, 
up  one  old  street,  and  down  another.  Sometimes  she 
would  make   a   hurried  little   sketch,   and  then   we 


i24  PARIS 

would  wander  on  again,  looking  about  for  some  pic- 
turesque cafe  or  inn  in  which  to  have  luncheon. 

We  found  all  kinds  of  queer-looking  places, — 
dark-browed,  narrow-eyed  old  inns,  on  streets  whose 
names  I  cannot  now  recall.  We  would-  invariably 
enter  with  the  firm  determination  to  take  only  a  cup 
of  coffee  and  bread  and  butter,  or  something  equally 
light,  and  just  as  often  ended  by  ordering  roast  veal 
and  green  peas  (as  only  the  French  can  cook  them) , 
and  eating  some  of  everything  in  sight.  One  can  find 
veal  and  green  peas,  cooked  with  a  pinch  of  garlic,  in 
every  restaurant  in  Paris,  I  believe.  Our  resolu- 
tions,— no  one's  resolutions, — can  possibly  stand  the 
test  of  the  odors  from  a  French  kitchen;  one  will  eat 
whether  he  is  hungry  or  not;  and  if  one  is  not  hungry 
upon  entering,  he  will  find  his  appetite  before  many 
minutes  pass  by. 

Upon  one  occasion  we  found  ourselves  in  a  place 
where  the  diners  all  seemed  to  be  acquainted  with 
one  another, — came  in  and  sat  down  at  a  long  table, 
evidently  reserved,  and  ate  and  talked  together  in 
a  way  that  showed  long  acquaintance.  The  proprie- 
tress took  the  cash  in  over  a  zinc  counter,  behind 
which  were  rows  and  rows  of  bottles;  she  superin- 
tended everything  in  the  front  part  of  the  establish- 
ment, throwing  out  occasional  remarks  to  the  family- 
like diners  at  the  long  table,  as  though  she  knew 
them  all  very  well. 

The  persons  at  this  particular  table  gave  us  just 
a  passing  glance,  then  paid  no  further  attention  to 
us.    We  sat  at  a  smaller  table  over  on  the  other  side 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  125 

of  the  room.  It  was  queer,  but  I  could  never  find 
that  place  again,  although  we  looked  for  it  several 
times;  it  always  eluded  my  researches;  all  I  can 
vouch  for  is  that  it  was  not  far  from  the  School  of 
Fine  Arts.  It  was  truly  a  very  old-fashioned  place, 
but  served  most  excellent  food  at  extraordinarily 
cheap  prices. 

We  sat  there  for  a  long  time,  over  our  coffee  after 
the  luncheon,  and  talked  of  things  that  we  might 
never  have  thought  of  in  another  place.  Environ- 
ment sometimes  casts  strange  spells. 

On  one  side  of  the  Luxembourg  Gardens  we  ran 
into  another  beautiful,  picturesque  old  thorough- 
fare,— the  Rue  Ferou.  All  along  the  street  are 
quaint,  tall,  pot-chimneyed  old  mansions  of  five  or 
six  centuries  ago,  with  their  heavy  old  green-shut- 
tered windows,  and  their  walled-in  gardens,  and 
walks  about  two  feet  wide.  At  the  end  of  the  street 
can  be  seen  the  high  towers  of  Saint  Sulpice,  the 
trees  of  the  Luxembourg  Gardens  adding  just  the 
needed  touch  of  living  green,  and  the  reminiscences 
of  Massena  and  Athos  (both  of  whom  once  lived  in 
this  street)  just  the  needed  touch  of  sentiment.  All 
of  these  old  streets  and  houses  are  impregnated  with 
the  associations  of  these  wonderful  people,  real  and 
imaginary.  It  seems  almost  impossible  that  some  of 
the  characters  created  by  Balzac,  Dumas,  and  Hugo, 
were  not  real  personages;  and  one  continually  feels 
like  going  out  on  a  still  hunt  for  some  of  them;  it 
seems  almost  as  if  we  might  find  trace  of  them, — 


126  PARIS 

somewhere.  One  of  the  beautiful  things  about  the 
characters  of  romance  is  that  they  never  die, — they 
live  on  and  on,  in  a  perpetual  existence,  so  that  it  is 
not  strange  if  sometimes  amid  these  surroundings 
we  feel  as  though  we  might  catch  a  shadowy  glimpse 
of  some  of  them  flitting  around  some  gray  corner. 

One  of  the  "shadowy"  ones,  who  might  perhaps 
be  flitting  around  some  gray  corner,  and  that  I  al- 
ways felt  like  looking  for,  was  my  beloved  Lecoq, 
the  wonderful  creature  of  Gaboriau's  inventive 
genius.  Here  he  lived,  in  this  long,  narrow,  slant- 
eyed,  cross-grained  old  street,  the  Rue  Montmartre, 
not  very  far  from  Saint  Eustache.  It  is  a  very  nar- 
row street,  paved  with  flagstones,  and  over  numbers 
of  doorways  are  curious  old  square  lanterns,  and  in 
nearly  every  window  there  is  to  be  seen  the  sign 
"Chambres  a  loner'  (rooms  to  let).  I  wondered 
which  house  it  was  in  which  he  had  lived;  there  were 
numbers  that  answered  very  well  to  the  description. 

These  characters  of  fiction  are  sometimes  much 
more  strongly  impressed  upon  the  imagination  than 
are  those  of  history.  All  things  said,  however,  this 
particular  street  is  not  one  in  which  I  should  choose 
to  dwell.  It  looks  sinister,  and  has  a  more  wicked 
look  than  do  those  other  old  streets. 

Not  so  very  far  away  from  the  long  stream  of 
travel  on  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  at  No.  4  Rue  du  Mont 
Thabor,  is  the  house  in  which  our  own  beloved 
Washington  Irving  lived  for  a  while, — another  one 
of  the  tall  old  houses  filled  with  phantoms.     Just 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  127 

next  door  is  the  house  from  which  the  spirit  of  Alfred 
de  Musset  winged  its  flight. 

If  one  is  going  to  look  at  all  the  old  streets  and 
houses,  because  of  their  associations,  one  need  not 
be  idle  in  Paris.     The  city  fairly  teems  with  them. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   PANTHEON.      VOLTAIRE'S    FUNERAL 

Almost  any  building  with  a  dome  is  beautiful  to 
me,  and  the  Pantheon  proved  to  be  no  exception, 
although  the  interior  is  much  smaller  than  the  ex- 
terior would  lead  one  to  anticipate. 

This  is  another  place  that  is  filled  with  those  things 
that  cannot  be  seen  with  the  physical  eye, — the  mem- 
ories of  the  great  souls  who  have  been  laid  to  rest 
in  the  cavernous  vaults  of  stone  beneath  the  church, 
to  be  carted  away  after  a  time  to  some  other  place, 
leaving  behind  them  only  a  marble  tablet  to  tell  the 
terrestrial  story,  and  the  impalpable  influences  that 
fill  the  place  for  those  who  can  sense  them. 

Mirabeau  was  the  first  of  the  great  men  to  find 
a  resting-place  here,  though  only  for  a  short  time, 
"being  accompanied  in  great  state  by  four  hundred 
thousand  people,"  all  howling  and  wailing  at  the 
death  of  so  great  a  man. 

Then  Danton  was  brought,  in  such  a  state  that  his 
face  had  to  be  rouged  and  powdered  to  hide  his  de- 
composed features,  although  his  body  was  allowed 
to  remain  "covered  with  blood-stained  linen,  an  arm 
'holding  an  iron  pen'  hanging  outside  the  coffin."  A 
howling  crowd  followed,  weeping  the  death  of  its 

128 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  129 

"divine  hero."     He,  too,  stayed  but  a  short  while. 

When  I  read  of  the  funeral  honors  of  Voltaire,  I 
am  never  quite  sure  as  to  whether  I  ought  to  laugh 
or  to  weep  with  the  crowd  that  accompanied  him, — 
there  were  so  many  elements  of  humor  that  I  am 
sure  he  would  have  been  delighted  could  he  have 
seen  them.  He,  too,  was  permitted  to  rest  here  for 
a  while. 

The  description  runs  thus: 

The  body  of  Voltaire,  brought  to  Paris  from  the  Abbey  of 
Scellieres,  passed  the  night  of  nth  July,  1791,  on  the  spot  where 
the   demolished   Bastille   had   stood. 

Next  morning,  at  eight  o'clock,  a  car  of  monumental  proportions 
drawn  by  twelve  horses,  moved  off  for  the  Pantheon.  It  was 
surmounted  by  a  sarcophagus  of  Oriental  granite,  bearing  a  figure 
of  Voltaire  in  a  half-reclining  position  as  if  asleep.  He  was  clad 
in  a  purple  robe,  and  a  young  girl  was  laying  a  crown  of  golden 
stars   about   his  brow. 

All  Paris  lined  the  streets  as  the  procession  went  by.  The 
route  comprised  the  Boulevards,  the  Rue  Royale,  the  Plac  Louis 
XV.,  and  the  Quais,  and  then  up  the  Rue  Saint  Jacques. 

The  first  halt  was  made  in  front  of  the  Opera  (on  the  site  of 
the  present  theater  of  the  Porte-Saint-Martin),  where  hymns  were 
chanted;  the  second,  on  the  Quai  des  Theatins  (now  the  Quai 
Voltaire),  in  front  of  the  house  of  M.  de  Villette,  where  the 
great  man  died. 

There,  a  band  of  fifty  young  girls,  wearing  classical  costumes, 
designed  by  David,  surrounded  the  funeral  car,  over  which  flut- 
tered the  torn  flag  of  the  Bastille;  they  were  joined  presently  by 
the  widow  and  daughters  of  the  unhappy  Colas  and  the  artists 
of  the  Comedia  Frangais,  in  theatrical  dress.  Children  walked 
in  front  of  the  cortege,  strewing  roses  before  the  horses'  feet. 
It  was  all  admirably  arranged,  and  everything  had  been  provided 
for — except  the  weather. 

Suddenly  a  terrible  storm  broke  over  Paris.  Orosmane  made 
haste  to  shelter  Merope  and  Jocaste  beneath  an  umbrella;  Brutus, 
Susignan,  Zaire,  and  Nanine  scuttled  into  a  hackney-coach;  the 
fifty  virgins,  bespattered  with  mud  to  the  waist,  tucked  their 
peplums  under  their  arms,  and  tying  pocket-handkerchiefs  round 
their  throats,  draggled  on  through  the  mud  under  a  perfect  deluge 
of   rain.     The   colors  began   to   run,   and   the   figure   of  the   dead 


i3o  PARIS 

hero  to  look  more  and  more  lamentable  every  moment;  the  Ro- 
man Senators'  togas  hung  limp  and  wretched  under  the  down- 
pour,  which  obstinately  refused   to  stop. 

It  was  under  these  discouraging  circumstances  that  Voltaire, 
12th  July,    1791,   entered   the  Pantheon. 

How  different  from  this  was  the  funeral  of  Victor 
Hugo,  in  1885,  when,  as  T.  Okey  says: 

The  whole  population  (except  the  Faubourg  Saint  Germain  and 
the  clergy),  from  the  poorest  laborer  to  the  heads  of  the  State, 
issued  forth  to  file  past  the  coffin  of  their  daring  poet,  lifted  up 
under  the  Arch  de  Triomphe,  and  by  their  multitudinous  pres- 
ence honored  his  remains  borne  on  a  poor  bare  hearse  to  their 
last  resting  place  in  the  Pantheon.  Amid  this  vast  crowd,  mainly 
composed  of  laborers,  mechanics,  and  the  petite  bourgeoisie,  as- 
sembled to  do  homage  to  the  memory  of  the  poet  of  democracy, 
scarcely  an  agent  was  seen;  the  people  were  their  own  police, 
and  not  a  rough  gesture,  not  a  trace  of  disorder  marred  the  sub- 
lime scene. 

Others  have  come, — and  gone;  Rousseau,  Victor 
Hugo,  Zola.  There  were  a  lot  of  wreaths  made  of 
dark-colored  beads,  and  many  dried  leaves  strewn 
about  in  the  vault  where  Hugo  had  lain,  which,  how- 
ever insignificant  in  themselves,  were  all  signs  of  the 
honor  in  which  France  holds  and  revers  the  memory 
of  her  great  ones. 

France,  or  rather  Paris,  is  so  generally  spoken  of 
as  "frivolous,"  that  it  is  with  a  keen  sense  of  pleas- 
ure, not  unmixed  with  surprise,  that  one  discovers 
that  she  is  not  "frivolous."  One  has  only  to  witness 
the  great  honor  that  is  bestowed  upon  her  great  men, 
and  the  beautiful  reverence  paid  to  their  memories, 
to  realize  that  beneath  a  smiling,  joyous  exterior, 
there  lies  a  great  love  and  reverence  for  the  beau- 
ties of  character,  intellect  and  achievement, — that 
they  know  and  understand  the  deep  things  of  life. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  131 

One  cannot  enter  and  leave  the  Pantheon  without  a 
deeper  feeling  of  admiration  and  appreciation  of  the 
French  people. 

The  exterior  of  the  Pantheon  is  a  wonderful  vision 
in  the  moonlight,  and  I  have  always  been  glad  that 
I  saw  it  so  for  the  first  time.  Of  all  the  paintings  of 
Saint  Genevieve  on  the  interior  we  can  read  in  the 
guide  books.  One  does  not  care  to  think  of  the  saint 
here;  one  wishes  only  to  think  of  the  great  men  who 
have  so  lately  gone  away. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

CHURCH  OF  SAINT  SEVERIN.    SAINT  GERVAIS.    OTHER 
CHURCHES.    THE  MADELEINE.    THE  MARKETS 

One  afternoon  Madame  Frangais  herself  went 
out  with  me  on  an  expedition,  and  a  most  desirable 
companion  she  was,  as  she  had  never  known  any 
home  other  than  Paris,  of  which  city  she  knew  every 
stick  and  stone. 

We  went  to  the  church  of  Saint  Severin,  "built  on 
the  site  of  the  oratory  of  Childebert  I,  where  Saint 
Cloud  was  shorn  and  took  his  vows," — an  old,  old 
church,  hidden  in  a  perfect  labyrinth  of  small,  dark, 
odoriferous  streets  in  the  Latin  Quarter. 

At  first  sight  I  liked  it;  it  pleased  me.  The  whole 
front  is  a  perfect  embroidery  of  gargoyles,  carvings, 
and  statues,  topped  off  by  a  lovely  old  tower.  Queer 
figures  of  strange  form  and  shape  peep  out  from 
the  most  unexpected  places.  The  gargoyles  here  do 
not  have  such  hideous,  leering  faces  as  do  those  on 
Notre  Dame;  they  suggest  rather  kobolds,  gnomes, 
and  such  things;  the  devilish  is  not  so  prominently 
suggested. 

The  interior  of  this  church  is  very  dark,  as  the 
tall  old  houses  built  so  closely  around  it  keep  out 
the  bright  light  of  day.    Through  the  gloom  a  num- 

132 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  133 

ber  of  candles  could  be  seen  glimmering  on  the  high 
altar,  and  the  solemn,  restrained  light  was  streaming 
in  through  the  many  small  windows  filled  with  their 
wonderful,  exquisite  stained  glass  of  ancient  date 
(nearly  all  of  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  I 
believe).  In  one  window  is  Saint  Anthony  in  most 
gorgeous  apparel,  with  his  staff  and  his  bed,  his  very 
pink  feet  kept  warm  by  the  holy  fire;  and  to  make 
it  look  homelike,  near  by  reclines  his  faithful  friend 
the  pig, — a  nice,  fat,  well-fed  pig, — all  in  most  beau- 
tifully colored  glass. 

It  is  not  a  large  church;  just  a  gorgeous  little  gem 
tucked  away  back  in  an  out-of-the-way  corner,  filled 
with  religious  mystery,  art  treasures,  and  incense.  It 
seemed  like  a  house  of  worship;  it  had  the  right 
atmosphere;  it  was  a  real  church. 

We  looked  at  the  lovely  fifteenth-  and  sixteenth- 
century  chapels,  with  their  twinkling  candles;  inhaled 
some  of  the  sweet-smelling  incense  that  filled  the 
whole  atmosphere;  Madame  said  a  prayer  before 
one  of  the  saints,  and  then  we  went  on, — to  another 
bit  of  ancient  history. 

Only  a  little  distance  away  is  the  little  church  of 
Saint- Julien-le-Pauvre,  which  was  once  upon  a  time 
the  chapel  of  the  Hotel  Dieu, — one  of  the  oldest  hos- 
pitals of  Paris.  Here,  in  this  church,  the  university 
held  its  first  sittings. 

It  was  in  a  narrow,  exceedingly  dirty  court;  and 
when  we  entered  the  place  we  found  a  queer,  little 
old  white-haired  man,  in  an  embroidered  black  robe 
and  a  skull-cap,  in  charge.     No  other  persons  were 


134  PARIS 

there,  and  we  were  free  to  indulge  any  curiosity  that 
we  may  have  had  regarding  the  place. 

It  is  now  used  as  a  Greek  Church,  and  there  was 
none  of  the  paraphernalia  of  the  Roman  Church  in 
evidence. 

This  little  old  man  (who  was  a  Syrian)  was  as 
curious  as  a  sparrow;  he  cocked  his  head  on  one 
side,  settled  his  black  cap  a  little  further  back  on  his 
head,  and  looked  us  over.  The  inspection  was  evi- 
dently satisfactory,  for  he  invited  us  to  come  in  as 
though  he  were  asking  guests  into  a  home  of  his 
own.  He  chattered  and  talked, — seeming  glad  to 
have  visitors, — said  he  could  see  plainly  that  we  were 
appreciative  and  intelligent.  Whereupon  I  nudged 
Madame  Frangais.  She  did  not  even  smile,  but  gave 
me  an  extremely  amused  look,  and  I  could  feel  my- 
self swelling,  puffed  up  with  pride. 

The  little  church  is  a  humble  one,  with  no  claim 
to  the  artistic;  but  if  one  listens  closely,  in  the  right 
frame  of  mind,  he  might  perhaps  hear  some  phantom 
voice  whisper:  "Dante!"  But  it  is  impossible  for 
me  to  think  of  Dante  in  Paris;  the  somber  Floren- 
tine must  forever  remain  in  those  frescoes;  why 
should  he  climb  down  out  of  those  frescoes  of  Ghir- 
landajo's  and  come  here,  to  roam  these  old  Latin- 
Quarter  streets  of  Paris.  He  must  stay  in  Florence. 
We  cannot  think  of  him  here.  However,  as  each 
place  has  its  gods  to  whom  incense  must  be  burned, 
we  must  acknowledge  the  shade  of  Dante  in  the 
vicinity  of  Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre,  and  burn  our  in- 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  135 

cense.    S.  S.  Beale  writes,  in  her  captivating  way,  of 
this  old  quarter: 

The  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries  were  periods  of  great 
intellectual  activity.  Students  flocked  to  Paris  from  all  parts  of 
Europe,  and  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine  became  a  colony  of  Col- 
leges. Saint  Julien  was  in  the  midst  of  these  schools,  and  in  the 
streets  surrounding  it  were  dwellings  for  the  students  of  the  va- 
rious nationalities. 

The  little  Rue  du  Fouarre  takes  its  name  from  fouarrage,  the 
straw  upon  which  the  students  sat  during  the  lectures;  and  so 
large  was  the  attendance  in  1535,  that  the  authorities  were  obliged 
to  erect  two  gates  to  prevent  the  circulation  of  carriages  during 
the  lessons. 

Bruno  Latini,  Dante  Alighieri,  Petrarca,  and  Rabelais,  were 
among  the  students  of  the  Rue  du  Fouarre,  the  three  last  re- 
ferring to  it  in  their  writings.  Dante,  especially,  mentions  his 
old  master  Sigier  de  Brabant  in  his  "Divina  Commedia".  .  .  . 
The  poet  also  bears  witness  to  the  violent  discussions  which  took 
place  in  the  street,  and  adds  that  he  found  comfort  in  going  to 
Saint  Julien  to  say  his  prayers.  .  .  .  For  several  centuries  the 
old  church  was  the  seat  of  the  general  assemblies  of  the  Uni- 
versity; and  by  a  decree  of  Philippe  le  Bel,  the  Provost  of  Paris 
was  obliged  to  go  there  every  two  years  to  take  an  oath  to  observe 
the  privileges  of  the  students,  who  were  under  his  jurisdiction. 
He  bore  the  title  of  Conservateur  de  l'Universite  with  much  pride; 
but  he  must  have  had  a  troublous  life,  for  the  students  were  always 
quarreling  with  the  citizens;  and  in  the  reign  of  Charles  VI., 
the  then  Provost,  Hugues  Aubroit,  rebuilt  the  Petit-Chatelet  (which 
was  close  to  St.  Julien)  in  order  to  defend  the  City  against  the 
nocturnal  incursions  of  the  scholars.  .  .  . 

Up  to  the  sixteenth  century,  Saint  Julien  was  also  the  scene 
of  the  election  of  the  Rector  of  the  Faculty  of  Arts  .  .  .,  and 
upon  these  occasions,  notably  in  1524,  the  students  seemed  to  have 
amused  themselves,  after  their  kind,  by  breaking  doors  and  win- 
dows, wrenching  knockers,  and  such  like  playful  imbecilities.  .  .  . 

But  Saint  Julien  was  not  simply  the  center  of  the  University; 
it  was  also  the  headquarters  of  many  guilds  and  corporations, 
such  as  the  Confraternity  of  Notre-Dame-des-Vertus,  the  Paper- 
makers,  the  Ironfounders,   and  Roof-tilers. 

But,  what  matters  it?  They  have  all  passed  away. 
Nothing  remains  but  the  wee  chapel  and  reminis- 
cences. 


136  PARIS 

This  little  old  man  said  that  he  himself  was  a 
Syrian.  Whatever  he  was,  his  intelligence  was  of 
no  mean  order;  he  knew  many  things.  He  showed 
us  some  church  vestments  most  wonderfully  wrought 
in  rich  embroideries:  altar  cloths,  and  the  like,  and 
he  talked  of  his  special  form  of  worship  as  of  some- 
thing that  had  been  given  to  mortals  (that  is,  certain 
mortals)  straight  down  from  Heaven.  There  was  a 
censer  hidden  away  somewhere,  which  he  brought 
out  to  show  to  us.  If  it  was  genuine,  it  must  have 
been  worth  many  thousands  of  dollars, — fairly  glit- 
tering as  it  did,  with  shining  jewels,  curious  carvings, 
and  inlaid  work. 

For  me  the  place  was  filled  with  an  unfamiliar 
atmosphere.  Each  unfamiliar  sound  made  me  start 
and  turn  around,  looking  for — I  scarcely  know  what : 
some  stray  spirit,  perhaps,  that  might  peep  from  be- 
hind one  of  the  ancient  stone  columns. 

Later  on,  we  bade  the  little  Syrian  man  adieu, 
and  left  the  chapel,  with  an  invitation  to  return, 
given  in  the  most  friendly  spirit. 

We  then  entered  our  carriage  and  ended  up  the 
afternoon  by  a  drive  to  the  Bois  and  coffee  at  the 
Restaurant  Paillard, — a  large,  fashionable  cafe  in 
the  beautiful  woods.  All  the  "entertainment"  was 
there,  in  beautiful  gowns  and  furbelows,  and  it 
seemed  as  though  we  had  made  a  jump  of  ages  from 
those  two  old  churches  across  the  river;  this  was  the 
Paris  of  to-day;  the  other,  the  Paris  of  yesterday. 

Each  day  one  gains  new  knowledge  of  what  Paris 
has  been,  and  with  it,  a  new  feeling,  a  new  under- 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  137 

standing,  of  what  one  sees  at  present.  Not  to  under- 
stand the  cause,  to  some  extent  at  least,  would  make 
the  effect  of  what  one  sees  in  Paris  seem  rather  con- 
fusing; for  the  old,  the  past,  the  historical  is  all  so 
interwoven  with  the  new,  the  present,  the  going-to-be 
historical,  that  cause  must  be  known  to  appreciate 
and  enjoy  the  effect, — that  is,  the  present,  its  beauty, 
its  gayety  and  pleasures.  To  me  the  pleasures  of 
Paris  seem  to  be  the  intellectual  rather  than  the 
merely  frivolous.  What  intellect!  What  achieve- 
ment! What  evidences  of  greatness  all  about!  What 
wonderful  things  have  been  accomplished  in  Paris! 
The  trend  of  French  intelligence  is  scientific  in  the 
widest  meaning  of  the  word.  Paris  is  a  thinking 
city;  her  present  aspect  and  condition  show  it.  She 
is  not  a  brooder  or  a  dreamer, — she  thinks  clearly 
and  quickly,  and  then  her  thoughts  go  whizzing 
through  the  universe. 

Another  day,  I  went  to  see  Saint  Gervais, — an- 
other one  of  the  old-world  churches  that  appealed  to 
my  fancy.  It  is  filled  with  reminiscences,  paintings, 
stained  glass,  and  the  dimness  and  "religious  light" 
that  one  wishes  to  see  in  a  church. 

All  along  the  sides  of  this  church  are  little  chapels 
filled  with  frescoes  and  pictures,  wee  altars,  and 
twinkling  candles.  Here  is  a  medallion  of  "God  the 
Father"  by  Perugino,  and  a  great  gilded  crucifix  on 
the  high  altar  that  glitters  and  beckons  whenever  a 
stray  sunbeam  falls  upon  it.  The  edifice  is  very  dark 
and    quiet   within,    and    seems    far   away    from    the 


138  PARIS 

double-decked  trams  and  unwieldy  omnibuses  that  go 
scuttling  through  the  busy  streets  so  close  by. 

The  place  is  full  of  shadowy  reflections,  for  this 
is  where  the  wonderful  woman,  the  brilliant  letter- 
writer  Madame  de  Sevigne,  was  married.  One  in- 
stinctively thinks  of  her  when  here. 

Some  of  the  smaller  churches,  which  are  in  no 
sense  of  the  word,  "show"  places,  please  me  (indi- 
vidually) more  than  do  some  of  the  great  begilded 
and  bepainted  ones.  They  have  such  a  "church"  air 
about  them,  that  one  feels  as  though  he  were  in  a 
place  of  worship.  I  do  not  dislike  the  great 
churches, — not  at  all, — but  I  also  like  these. 

The  Church  of  Saint  Eugene  is  another  "churchy" 
church.  It  is  so  dark  that  it  is  only  with  difficulty 
that  one  can  see,  through  the  obscurity,  the  twin- 
kling lights  of  the  high  altar.  The  kneeling  figures 
are  like  so  many  blobs  of  shadow  on  the  gray  floor. 
The  people  here  kneel  at  their  prayers  with  such 
seeming  abandon  and  forgetfulness  of  self. 

One  Sunday  morning  I  went  to  the  Church  of  the 
Madeleine  to  hear  Mass  and  burn  incense  to  the 
gods,  but  I  could  not  determine  to  which  ones, — the 
gods  of  Greece,  or  the  gods  of  Rome.  However, 
once  inside,  the  Greek  Temple  is  lost  sight  of  in  the 
paraphernalia  of  the  Roman  service,  and  I  joined  in, 
with  probably  several  hundred  others,  and  burned 
my  incense  on  the  altar  of  Rome. 

O  Antwerp  !  There  are  no  stained  glass  windows 
here  through  which  the  sun  can  send  down  its  long 
red,  green,  blue,  and  golden  gleams  onto  the  bowed 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  139 

heads  of  the  worshipers,  and  the  silvery  haze  of 
incense  wends  its  way  in  long,  quivering  slants  up  to 
the  three  cupolas  in  the  roof,  which  furnishes  what 
light  there  is  in  the  templelike  Christian  church.  All 
that  I  could  think  of,  as  I  looked  through  the  haze 
at  the  richly  appareled  priests,  was  Chopin, — of 
how  he  lay  here  in  state,  of  how  the  world  for  the 
first  time  heard  the  divine  strains  of  his  wonderful 
Funeral  March,  which  was  performed  at  intervals 
at  his  own  funeral  solemnities. 

I  do  not  know  what  Mass  was  sung  that  Sunday 
morning,  but  the  miraculous  strains  filled  the  sanctu- 
ary— faint  and  spirituelle  they  were  at  first,  then  they 
burst  into  thunderous  harmonies, — magnificent  and 
awesome.  One  instinctively  fell  to  his  knees.  There 
was  one  exquisite  soprano  voice  that  was  invariably 
accompanied  by  the  harp,  and  the  excellent  intoning 
voice  of  one  priest  in  particular,  as  it  chanted  the 
musical  Latin  phrases,  added  immeasurably  to  the 
beauty  of  the  service. 

If  a  priest  cannot  chant  in  a  soft,  pliant  voice,  he 
should  not  be  permitted  to  say  Mass  on  Sundays. 
A  harsh,  metallic  voice  spoils  it  all,  and  destroys 
any  sacred  influence  that  might  otherwise  be  felt. 
So  much  depends  upon  a  musical  intonation.  Mass 
is  one  of  the  beautiful  things  of  life;  and  no  harsh 
sounds  should  ever  be  allowed  to  mar  its  religious 
effect.     Ernest  Renan,  in  his  "Patrice,"  says: 

Nothing  equals  the  grandeur  of  Catholicism  when  one  contem- 
plates it  in  its  mighty  proportions,  with  its  mysteries,  its  cult,  its 
sacraments,  its  mythical  history,  its  patriarchs,  its  prophets,  its 
apostles,   its  martyrs,    its   virgins,    its   saints — immense    agglomera- 


i4o  PARIS 

tion  of  eighteen  centuries,  in  which  nothing  is  lost,  an  ever  ascend- 
ing mountain,  a  gigantic  temple  to  which  each  generation  adds  a 
story. 

And  I  might  add  to  this  wonderful  list,  and  its 
wonderful  masses — its  magnificent  music. 

The  Madeleine  is  much  more  beautiful  on  the 
outside  than  it  is  on  the  inside;  although  the  great 
group, — Mary  Magdalen  being  borne  to  Paradise 
by  two  angels, — of  snowy  marble  on  the  high  altar 
is  a  glorious  vision  to  one  who  first  sees  it  through 
the  veil  of  incense  floating  about  the  choir. 

I  had  no  need  to  feel  ashamed  of  my  own  church 
in  Paris,  and  the  next  Sunday  morning,  I  went  there, 
to  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  in  the  Avenue  de 
l'Alma, — only  a  short  walk  from  my  pension. 

The  Gothic  church  is  of  beautiful  white  marble, 
inside  as  well  as  outside;  the  windows  filled  with  ex- 
quisite stained  glass, — new  and  modern,  of  course, 
but  very  beautiful. 

I  admit,  quite  candidly,  that  I  went  to  see  who  was 
there, — to  see,  if  by  any  possible  chance  there  was 
any  person  present  whom  I  had  ever  seen  before; 
but  there  was  no  one,  and  I  felt  lonely.  They  were 
all  my  countrymen  and  countrywomen,  but  I  did  not 
know  them.  Always  afterwards,  I  went  to  the  Ro- 
man churches,  among  the  French  people,  and  I  was 
never  lonely  or  disappointed,  because  I  did  not  ex- 
pect anything.  But  to  be  in  an  American  audience 
in  a  strange  land,  and  not  know  a  soul,  nor  be 
able  to  speak  to  any  one, — when  I  wanted  to  call 
out,  "How  do  you  do?"  and  shake  hands  and  em- 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  141 

brace  everybody  there, — that  was  too  much!  So, 
I  stuck  to  the  strange  churches  and  strange  congre- 
gations. 

It  is  said  that  the  "swells"  go  to  the  Sainte  Clo- 
tilde.  That  may,  or  may  not  be  true,  but  what  I 
went  for  was  not  so  much  to  see  the  "swells"  as  to 
hear  the  bells, — the  beautiful  chimes.  I  would  travel 
far  to  listen  to  the  music  of  chimes. 

Sainte  Clotilde  is  a  large,  beautiful,  modern 
church,  which  cost  something  over  a  million  dollars 
in  the  building;  but  the  interior  impresses  one  as 
being  medieval, — with  its  carved  choir-stalls,  its 
high,  medieval-looking  altar,  rich  with  inlaid  work 
and  carvings;  its  stained-glass  windows,  its  paintings, 
and  its  chimes. 

I  believe  that  of  all  the  churches  in  Paris,  Saint 
Sulpice  appeals  to  my  heart  the  most.  The  atmos- 
phere of  these  churches  is  sometimes  very  strongly 
felt,  and  one  finds  oneself  yielding  to  all  kinds  of 
strange  fancies  that  go  scuttling  through  the  brain, 
while  outwardly  listening  to  the  strains  of  music 
that  reverberate  and  circle  round  and  round  the 
sanctuary,  and  watching  the  glimmer  of  the  candles 
on  the  far-away  high  altar. 

In  a  small  chapel  is  the  Dauphin's  little  organ, 
which  was  purchased  at  the  Trianon  sale  in  1793; 
I  only  mention  the  fact,  to  ask  why  it  should  be  here? 
Why  should  it  not  be  in  the  Louvre,  instead  of  in 
a  church?  To  be  sure,  the  church  authorities  bought 
it;  but  I  should  think  it  would  look  better  in  a  mu- 
seum. 


1 42  PARIS 

The  church, — in  the  form  of  a  Greek  Cross  460 
feet  in  length, — is  filled  with  the  beautiful  things  of 
the  ecclesiastical  world,  each  of  its  twenty  side- 
chapels  being  a  little  gem  of  gorgeous  frescoes,  paint- 
ings, and  marbles.  In  one  chapel  is  a  beautiful 
image  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  which  conveys  the  im- 
pression that  she  is  standing  in  the  clouds,  the  light 
falling  down  upon  it  from  somewhere  in  the  ceiling. 
Theatrical  perhaps,  but  very  beautiful! 

In  another  chapel  is  one  of  the  things  that  I  de- 
test: the  Martyrdom  of  Saint  John  the  Evangelist. 
Bah! 

The  music  for  the  services  is  created  by  a  mas- 
terly hand.  But  whose?  I  do  not  know.  I  only 
know  that  it  is  of  the  kind  that  will  cause  a  person 
to  go  back  time  after  time,  just  to  hear  it.  There  is 
no  more  devotional  expression  of  the  soul  than 
music. 

During  the  sermon  one  Sunday,  the  devotional 
was  almost  lost  sight  of,  in  the  desire  to  laugh.  The 
preacher  twiddled  his  thumbs,  kept  chasing  one  after 
the  other  all  the  time,  stopping  only  long  enough, 
at  regular  intervals,  to  point  a  fat,  pudgy  finger 
at  the  congregation,  as  he  emphasized  some  point 
in  his  discourse,  and  then  resumed  the  twiddling. 

One  afternoon  Madame  Frangais  and  I  went  to 
visit  the  church  of  Saint  Etienne-du-Mont,  where  I 
again  had  an  opportunity  to  luxuriate  in  the  glories 
of  stained  glass,  offer  incense  to  the  tomb  of  Saint 
Genevieve,  the  patron  saint  of  Paris,  and  call  to 
mind  those    great  men, — Racine  and  Pascal, — who 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  143 

found  their  last  resting-place  here,  under  the  pro- 
tection of  the  saint. 

The  stained  glass  of  this  church  is  gorgeous,  but 
one  must  not  examine  one  window  too  closely  if 
he  does  not  care  for  the  disgustingly  grewsome.  It 
is  an  illustration  of  the  allegory  of  the  wine-press. 

Our  Lord  lies  upon  the  press  in  the  presence  of  the  Father 
and  the  Holy  Spirit,  bathed  in  a  sea  of  blood,  which  flows  from 
His  sides,  His  hands,  His  feet.  Underneath,  the  blood  pours  down 
through  an  opening  into  a  large  cask.  Prelates  and  Kings  carry 
to  a  cellar  those  barrels  which  have  been  filled  with  the  Sacred 
Blood  by  the  Doctors  of  the  Church;  while,  from  under  a  rich, 
classic  portico,  we  see  the  faithful  flocking  to  confess  their  sins, 
and  to  receive  the  Holy  Eucharist.  In  the  distance,  the  Patriarchs 
are  digging  the  ground  and  pruning  the  vines,  while  the  Apostles 
gather  in  the  vintage.  St.  Peter  throws  the  grapes  into  a  vat, 
and  a  chariot  drawn  by  the  Ox,  the  Lion,  and  the  Eagle  of  the 
Apocalypse,  and  guided  by  the  Angel  of  S.  Matthew,  carries 
the  Divine  vintage  to  the  four  quarters  of  the  earth.  Such  is 
the  allegory  of  the  wine-press,  the  Pressoir  mystique,  the  out- 
come of  the  verse  of  Isaiah:  "I  have  trodden  the  wine-press  alone, 
and  of  the  people  there  was  none  with  me";  but,  unfortunately 
for  the  correctness  of  the  illustration,  there  is,  in  this  window,  a 
large  concourse  of  people,  great  and  small  in  worldly  means  and 
wisdom. 

If  one  can  forget  the  subject,  pleasure  in  the  con- 
templation of  this  wonderful  window  is  unlimited. 
I  do  not  like  these  dreadful  subjects;  but  they  must 
give  joy  to  the  true  believer. 

The  shrine  of  the  saint  is  well  worth  seeing.  It 
is  made  of  gold  and  silver,  all  studded  with  precious 
stones  set  in  wonderful  designs,  and  carved  with 
statues  of  the  saint  herself,  the  Virgin  Mary,  and 
the  twelve  Apostles.  Inside,  there  is  supposed  to 
be  preserved  a  portion  of  the  old  wooden  shrine  in 
which  the  relics  of  the  saint  were  first  kept,  as  well 


i44  PARIS 

as  the  relics  themselves,  which,  I  may  say,  are  not 
exhibited  to  the  public,  so  we  accept  them  on  faith. 
Candles  were  burning  all  around  the  shrine,  and 
kneeling  people, — troubled  souls, — surrounded  it  on 
every  side.  Votive  offerings,  in  gratitude  for  won- 
derful cures,  and  so  on,  were  hung  upon  the  walls 
in  great  profusion.  I  cannot  understand  why  votive 
offerings  should  so  often  take  the  form  of  little  silver 
hearts. 

We  all  generally  close  one  eye  when  listening  to 
the  tales  and  legends  of  saints,  but  very  clever  peo- 
ple tell  strange  stories  sometimes.  Why  should 
plagues  and  pestilences  cease,  and  all  manner  of 
threatened  evil  be  averted, — even  the  waters  of  the 
Seine  subsiding  during  a  threatened  flood, — simply  by 
the  carrying  of  this  shrine  in  a  solemn  procession 
through  the  streets?  I  never  saw  any  of  these  things 
done,  but  if  we  accept  historical  accounts  for  one 
thing,  why  not  for  the  other? 

Believe!  Believe!  Never  raise  uncomfortable 
suggestions  or  questionings, — that  spoils  everything. 
One  cannot  enjoy  these  things  when  all  the  time  he 
is  doubting.  Always  believe  it  is  all  true.  After  all, 
nothing  is  too  wonderful  to  be  true.  Believe  what 
you  like, — when  you  get  home. 

La  Trinite  is  a  great  modern  church,  with  a  some- 
what ancient  appearance,  that  appeals  to  one  more 
because  it  was  from  here  that  Rossini  was  carried  to 
his  long  rest  in  Pere  la  Chaise  before  being  sent  on 
to  Florence,  than  because  of  anything  else,  perhaps. 
In  his  "Paris  Churches,"  Mr.  Lonergan  says: 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  145 

Nilsson  was  there,  and  the  duet  between  Alboni  and  Patti,  the 
Quis  est  Homo,  from  Rossini's  own  "Stabat  Mater,"  set  strong 
men,  as  well  as  sentimental  women,  weeping  until  their  eyes  were 
red.  Rossini's  coffin  was  covered  with  Parma  violets,  his  favorite 
flowers,  and  with  ivy. 

Having  always  heard  of  the  wonderful  vision 
which  Saint  Eustache  presents  at  evening,  when  the 
altar  is  all  aglow  with  twinkling  candles,  the  atmos- 
phere sweet  with  smoking  incense,  the  floor  dotted 
with  kneeling  figures  at  their  devotions  in  the  twi- 
light, I  waited  to  make  my  first  visit  at  such  a  time. 

One  evening,  when  we  were  to  take  dinner  at  an 
old  cafe  of  note  in  the  vicinity,  we  whetted  our 
appetites  by  attending  vespers  at  this  wonderfully 
beautiful  old  church. 

The  sanctuary  fairly  blazed  with  gleaming  lights; 
but  even  so,  the  far-away  ceiling  faded  away  into 
misty  darkness;  there  was  that  strange  reverbera- 
tion caused  by  the  shifting  of  numbers  of  prayer- 
chairs  backwards  and  forwards;  the  strange  and  un- 
expected sounds  that  always  come  from  a  vast  con- 
gregation of  people  (a  cough  here,  a  sigh  there; 
the  clicking  of  beads;  and  over  all,  the  sound  of  the 
organ  away  off  through  the  clouds  of  hazy  incense, 
and  the  low,  subdued  tones  of  the  richly  appareled 
priest.     S.  S.  Beale  says  of  Saint  Eustache: 

On  entering  the  church,  the  effect  is  most  impressive,  and  upon 
any  great  festival,  or  during  the  evening  services  of  the  Adora- 
tion Perpetuelle,  when  the  whole  eas<:  end  is  a-blaze  with  candles, 
few  churches  can  compare  with  it  in  grandeur.  Saint  Eustache, 
like  most  large  churches,  looks  grandest  in  the  evening,  when  the 
altar  is  a-blaze  with  lights,  and  long  vistas  fade  away  into  the 
darkness;  but  under  all  conditions  it  is  a  splendid  church,  a  mass 
of  harmonious  coloring  from  floor  to  ceiling. 


146  PARIS 

Flying  buttresses  support  the  nave,  choir,  and  transepts;  and  a 
multitude  of  gargoyles,  fantastic  in  design,  representing  men, 
women  and  children,  with  foliage  terminations,  and  mostly  winged, 
surround  the  pilasters  of  the  aisles. 

Again  I  went,  in  the  morning,  to  an  early  Mass. 
I  wanted  to  hear  the  music,  which  is  always  splendid, 
and  to  see  the  market-women  at  their  devotions. 
The  great  market,  the  Halles  Centrales,  is  within 
a  stone's  throw  of  the  church,  and  it  is  difficult  for 
me  to  think  of  one  and  not  of  the  other — the  mind 
constantly  reverts  to  the  ancestors  of  these  market 
women,  kneeling  there,  busy  with  their  beads  and 
prayers, — to  those  fearsome  women,  who  with  their 
knitting  in  hand,  sat  counting  the  heads  of  the  hated 
aristocrats  as  they  fell  into  the  waiting  basket  from 
the  guillotine.  The  market-woman  of  to-day  is  a 
nice,  round-faced,  rolypoly  bit  of  humanity;  but 
looking  around  at  the  beautiful  windows,  frescoes 
and  paintings  of  Saint  Eustache,  even  while  listening 
to  the  wonderful  strains  coming  from  the  magnifi- 
cent organ,  the  mind  constantly  wanders  away  to 
the  "knitting  women,"  the  ancestors  perhaps  of  the 
market-women. 

How  some  of  these  churches  take  hold  of  the  affec- 
tions !  No  wonder  men  have  gone  smilingly  to  death 
in  most  cruel  forms  for  love  of  church !  It  is  not 
so  much  what  is  in  a  church,  it  is  not  perhaps  the 
jewel-like  windows,  it  is  not  the  marbles  nor  the 
paintings;  it  is  some  indefinable  something,  some  in- 
fluence perhaps, — something  that  eludes  analysis, — 
that  encroaches  upon  the  affections,  and  leads  men 
into  all  kinds  of  strange  adventures  because  of  it. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  147 

One  loves  some  of  them  at  once,  or  the  reverse.  I 
went  at  divers  times  to  these  churches  that  attracted 
me,  and  the  influence  was  always  the  same;  just  as 
my  dislike  of  Notre  Dame  was  always  felt. 

To  go  from  Saint  Eustache  to  the  market  is  only 
a  moment's  travel.  After  listening  to  the  most  ex- 
quisite music  of  the  ecclesiastical  world,  in  the  quiet 
of  the  vast  sanctuary,  it  gives  one  quite  a  startling 
sensation  to  enter  into  the  commotion  of  the  Halles 
Centrales. 

We  have  markets  in  America,  yes!  But  really, 
this  great  Paris  market  is  not  to  be  laughed  at, — 
not  by  any  means!  Even  we  have  to  admit  that  it 
is  a  large  one;  it  covers  something  over  twenty  acres, 
divided  into  ten  sections,  each  section  containing  over 
two  hundred  and  fifty  stalls.  The  whole  is  inter- 
sected by  roofed-over  streets,  leading  from  one  divi- 
sion to  another,  and  it  cost  Paris  something  like  two 
million  and  a  half  dollars  to  build. 

There  the  market-people  stand,  offering  their 
wares,  talking  back  and  forth  to  one  another  from 
stall  to  stall,  and  eating  and  drinking.  Personally, 
I  saw  nothing  whatever  of  what  I  am  about  to  re- 
late, but  when  I  think  of  the  "garbage  man,"  and 
the  barrels  and  barrels  of  food  cast  away  from  our 
great  restaurants,  hotels,  and  cafes,  and  of  how  much 
good  might  be  done  with  it,  the  French  way  of  dis- 
posing of  such  refuse  seems  especially  to  recom- 
mend itself.  Nothing  is  ever  wasted  in  France,  and 
the  refuse  from  the  large  hotels  and  restaurants, 
banquets,  and  similar  places,  instead  of  being  thrown 


148  PARIS 

away,  is  rearranged  and  tastefully  redressed  in 
small  "portions"  called  "jewelry,"  taken  to  the  mar- 
kets, and  sold  for  a  penny  or  two.  Mr.  George 
Augustus  Sala  speaks  especially  of  this  custom,  and 
says,  in  his  intensely  interesting  way: 

"Here  is  the  'jewelry'  at  last!  We  pass  between 
a  double  line  of  stalls  heaped  high  with  the  most 
astonishing  array  of  cooked  food  that  I  have  ever 
set  eyes  upon.  Fish,  flesh,  fowl,  vegetables,  fruit, 
pastry,  confectionery  and  cheese  are  all  represented 
here,  ready  cooked,  but  cold,  and  arranged,  not  on 
plates  or  dishes,  but  on  quarter-sheets  of  old  news- 
papers. I  imagine  one  pile,  consisting  of  the  leg  of 
a  partridge,  the  remnants  of  an  omelette,  the  tail 
of  a  fried  sole,  two  ribs  of  a  jugged  hare,  a  spoonful 
of  haricot  beans,  a  scrap  of  filet,  a  cut  pear,  a  hand- 
ful of  salad,  a  slice  of  tomato,  and  a  dab  of  jelly. 
It  is  the  microcosm  of  a  good  dinner,  abating  the 
soup.  The  pile  constitutes  a  portion,  and  is  to  be 
bought  for  five  sous,  or  twopence-halfpenny. 

"There  are  portions  as  low  as  two  sous;  indeed, 
the  scale  of  prices  is  most  elastic  in  ascending  and 
descending.    There  are  piles  here  to  suit  all  pockets. 

"Are  your  funds  at  very  low  ebb,  indeed?  On 
that  scrap  of  a  back  number  of  the  Figaro,  you  will 
find  a  hard-boiled  egg,  the  gizzard  of  a  fowl,  two 
pickled  gherkins,  and  a  macaroon.  A  breakfast 
for  a  prince,  if  his  Highness  be  impecunious. 

"Are  you  somewhat  in  cash?  Behold  outspread 
on  a  trenchant  leading  article  from  the  Republique 
Franchise,  a  whole  veal  chop,  a  golden  store  of  cold 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  149 

fried  potatoes,  an  artichoke  a  la  barigoule,  a  sump- 
tuous piece  of  Roquefort,  some  barbe  de  Capucin 
salad,  and  the  remains  of  a  Charlotte  Russe.  A 
luncheon  for  a  king,  if  his  Majesty's  civil  list  be  a 
restricted  one.  But  there  are  loftier  luxuries  to  be 
had. 

"Behold  an  entire  fowl!  See  at  least  the  moiety 
of  a  Chateaubriand  aux  Champignons.  Yonder  are 
the  magnificent  relics  of  a  demieselle  de  pre  sale, 
the  remains  of  a  sole  a  la  Normandie,  the  ruins  of  a 
buisson  d'ecrevisses,  half  a  dozen  smelts,  the  back- 
bone of  a  pheasant,  and,  upon  my  word,  some  truffles ; 
yes,  positively,  truffles!  It  is  true  that  they  are 
mingled  with  bits  of  cheese  and  beet  root,  with  a  dash 
of  meringue  a  la  creme,  and  a  suspicion  of  Sauce 
Robert.  All  this  is  gathered  together  on  a  front 
page  of  the  Pays.  A  dinner  for  an  emperor,  when 
imperialism  is  at  a  discount,  and  Caesar  does  not 
find  it  convenient  to  dine  at  the  Cafe  Riche  or  the 
Maison  Doree. 

"The  fragments  which  form  the  'jewelry'  of  the 
Halles  Centrales  are  brought  down  in  big  baskets, 
between  seven  and  eight,  every  morning,  by  the 
garcons  of  the  great  boulevard  restaurants,  or  by 
the  larbins  from  the  hotels  of  the  ministers  and  the 
foreign  ambassadors.  If  there  has  been  overnight 
a  dinner  at  the  Ministry  of  the  Interior,  or  at  the 
Baratarian  Embassy,  the  show  of  'jewelry'  in  the 
morning  will  be  superb.  Whole  turkeys  and  ca- 
pons, all  but  the  entire  hams  and  hures  de  sanglier 
scarcely  impinged  upon,  pieces  montees,  the  majestic 


ISO  PARIS 

vestiges  of  a  poulet  a.  la  Marengo  or  a  saumon  a  la 
Chambord,  will  decorate  the  deal  boards  of  the  stalls 
in  the  Halles.  Out  of  the  fashionable  season,  the 
supply  comes  principally  from  the  leading  restau- 
rants, where  the  'leavings'  are  the  perquisites  of  the 
gargons." 

By  this  arrangement,  very  poor  people  can  have 
a  king's  dinner  for  a  very  few  pennies,  and  nothing 
is  wasted,  but  all  things  used  for  a  good  purpose. 

The  Halles  Centrales,  too,  are  interesting  from 
other  points  of  view,  and  because  of  other  associa- 
tions. 

The  Halles  Centrales  and  their  quarters  have  al- 
ways been  the  center  of  populace  in  Paris;  they 
still  remain  the  place  where,  in  spite  of  modern  sur- 
roundings, new  straight  streets  and  vast  roofs  of 
iron  and  glass,  you  can  most  usually  find  the  types 
that  make  up  the  lower  tradition  of  the  capitol. 
There  the  random  sellers  of  ballads,  the  street  art- 
ists, the  homeless  singers  gather  at  night. 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  MUSICALE.      FRENCH  FRIENDLINESS.      ANECDOTES 

One  evening  a  young  woman  whose  family  lived 
in  an  apartment  on  the  Rue  de  Longchamps,  not  far 
from  us,  invited  a  number  of  the  ladies  in  the  pension 
to  come  over  to  her  house  to  hear  some  music,  and 
added  an  invitation  for  "that  American  girl  who  is 
staying  over  there," — so,  I  went  too. 

This  family  was  Irish,  but  had  lived  the  greater 
part  of  their  life  in  France.  There  was  the  father 
and  mother,  a  brother  and  a  sister.  Both  brother 
and  sister  were  art  students,  and,  in  addition,  the 
sister  was  an  excellent  musician. 

There  was  a  fairly  large  salon,  with  an  immense 
window  of  stained  glass  on  one  side.  In  that  corner 
was  a  concert  grand  piano;  pictures  and  sketches 
lined  the  walls;  bits  of  carved  ivory  and  nicknacks 
were  strewn  about.  In  another  part  of  the  room 
was  the  Irish  emblem, — a  harp.  Altogether  it  was 
a  charming  room,  full  of  rest  suggestions.  I  liked 
its  begilded  ceiling,  its  picture-lined  walls,  its  pieces 
of  rare  furniture,  and  its  great,  black,  open  piano. 
I  felt  the  atmosphere  of  the  home  at  once  upon  en- 
tering its  salon. 

All  this  fine,  old-world  furniture  seems  to  have  an 

151 


152  PARIS 

influence  of  its  own:  it  puts  the  mind  into  a  state  of 
tranquillity,  consequently  the  body  falls  into  a  state 
of  rest  and  ease. 

Introductions  over,  we  all  began  at  once  to  con- 
verse, and  I  was  delighted  to  find  out  how  well  Amer- 
icans are  liked  in  Paris;  every  one  fairly  beamed  with 
cordiality. 

The  room  was  fitted  up  with  all  the  paraphernalia 
of  electric  lighting,  but  not  one  was  burning:  all  the 
illumination  came  from  numbers  of  wax  candles 
distributed  in  various  nooks  and  corners  of  the  room, 
— two  burning  in  little  brackets  attached  at  each 
side  of  the  music  rack  of  the  piano. 

I   asked  Miss  Ahnrate    (the  sister)  : 

"Why  candles  instead  of  the  electric  light?" 

"Fancy  trying  to  woo  the  goddess  in  anything  but 
candlelight!"  was  her  answer. 

No  matter,  the  effect  was  charming;  and  I  sin- 
cerely enjoyed  all  the  evening  brought  to  me,  for, 
among  other  things,  it  brought  to  me  a  friendship 
with  these  clever  people  that  has  never  been  broken. 

Then  some  wonderful  man,  in  plain  evening  dress, 
— with  a  clean,  smoothly-shaven  face  and  coal-black 
hair,  made  music  for  us.  No  one  spoke  a  word.  His 
music  enveloped  us  in  a  strange  repose — in  that  pe- 
culiar condition  of  mind  that  takes  possession  of  one 
when  listening  to  certain  sounds,  that  is  too  vague 
and  elusive  for  any  attempt  at  analysis;  but  perhaps 
we  all  know  what  it  is. 

What  strange  visions  one  may  sometimes  see  un- 
der the  influence  of  certain  music!     As  I  sat  there, 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  153 

in  the  soft  dim  light  of  the  candles,  trying  to  listen 
to  what  the  "master"  was  saying,  I  could  catch 
glimpses  of  tall,  Dante-like  figures, — somber,  stately, 
— coming  out  of  some  dark,  somber,  green  space, 
remote  and  blurred  by  indistinct  cypress  trees.  I 
could  see  the  luminous  haze  of  moonlight  cast  over 
some  far-away  landscape,  the  location  of  which  I  did 
not  know;  I  could  see  shimmering  waters;  hear 
strange  sounds  of  a  night  in  some  land  I  have  never 
seen.  With  the  change  of  harmony  came  a  change 
of  vision.  I  am  always  sorry  when  these  friendly 
dream-people  leave  me,  because  I  cannot  call  them 
back  (they  come  only  when  I  hear  the  same  music 
again)  ;  but  I  see  them  so  plainly  that  I  believe  I 
should  know  them  were  I  to  meet  them  in  real  life, 
and  that  I  should  recognize  those  strange,  beautiful 
landscapes  should  I  happen  to  see  them. 

Many  such  evenings  followed.  However,  I  found 
out  that  music  does  not  make  its  appeal  to  every  one 
as  it  does  to  me.  I  had  always  imagined  that  any 
one  who  could  paint  pictures  would  love  music,  and 
every  other  manifestation  of  art,  but  this,  evidently, 
is  not  true.  Mrs.  Harmon  could  not  endure  the 
sound  of  a  piano,  and  would  grow  nervous  and  fidg- 
ety before  a  performer  could  finish  a  single  num- 
ber, saying  it  made  her  ill.  And  she  would  then  go 
home,  or  into  some  other  room,  away  from  the  sound 
of  the  music. 

Not  long  after  that  bit  of  knowledge  had  drifted 
to  me  I  became  acquainted  with  an  artist  from  Hol- 
land,   who   painted   almost   exclusively   scenes   from 


154  PARIS 

his  own  land,  and  he  told  me  that  he  never  read  a 
book  of  any  description, — never  even  looked  between 
the  covers  of  one;  that  he  detested  books,  and  had 
never  read  any  since  he  left  school.  How  can  it  be 
possible?  Yet  he  assured  me  it  was  quite  true.  He 
was  a  man  of  refinement  and  apparent  culture.  I 
should  think — well,  no  matter  what  one  thinks; 
it  seems  to  me  an  abnormal  condition. 

I  do  not  know  how  people  used  to  comport  them- 
selves in  the  drawing-rooms  of  the  long  ago,  but  in 
reading  a  piece  of  advice  given  by  a  French  gentle- 
man of  great  culture,  to  his  nephew,  and  recalling  all 
the  magnificent  accounts  of  "salons"  that  I  have  read, 
I  am  rather  curious.  This  cultured  Frenchman 
says: 

Behave  yourself  well  and  correctly,  even  when  you  are  bored. 
Do  not  frown,  that  is  impolite.  Do  not  smile  to  yourself,  that 
gives  an  air  of  self-sufficiency.  Do  not  move  the  muscles  of 
your  face,  else  you  will  seem  to  be  talking  to  yourself.  Do  not 
stretch  yourself  at  length  in  arm-chairs,  these  are  the  manners 
of  the  tap-house.  Do  not  lean  too  far  forwards,  or  you  will 
seem  to  be  contemplating  your  boots.  Let  your  body  make  an 
angle  of  forty-five  degrees  with  your  limbs.  Assume  the  vacant 
and  composed  expression  of  a  prince  at  a  ceremony.  You  may, 
if  you  like,  turn  over  the  leaves  of  a  photographic  album.  .  .  . 
When  you  put  on  a  white  cravat,  do  not  swear  at  the  stupidity 
of  the  custom.  A  drawing-room  is  a  permanent  exhibition;  you 
are  a  commodity  and  commodities  are  not  disposed  of  unless 
properly  exhibited.  .  .  .  The  only  trouble  in  this  is  its  hypocrisy. 
You  are  all  dogs,  each  running  after  his  bone;  dinner  is  neces- 
sary,— that  I  agree  to;  but  for  God's  sake!  do  not  say  that  you 
despise  the  bone,  and,  if  possible,  do  not  smack  your  chops  so 
often ! 

May  the  saints  defend  us!  And  it  was  a  French- 
man who  said  it! 

Speaking  of  the  French  liking  Americans,     I  have 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  155 

discovered  one  curious  thing,  and  that  is,  that  nearly 
all  of  the  criticism  leveled  at  Americans  (and  Eng- 
lish, too)  in  Paris,  has  been  written  by  Americans 
and  English.  Why?  I  cannot  imagine.  A  French- 
man seldom  criticizes  the  Americans  and  the  English 
in  his  books.  Our  own  people  are  the  ones  who  do 
the  laughing  at  us.  But  again,  I  wonder  why?  If 
a  young  American  goes  to  Paris  to  study  painting 
or  music  for  a  couple  of  years,  he  seems  to  think 
that  by  that  act  he  has  become  a  Frenchman,  and 
is  in  a  position  to  laugh  at  the  rest  of  his  countrymen 
who  come  to  Paris,  and  may  not  understand  some 
things  about  the  city.  I  have  heard  of  several  in- 
stances where  our  own  people  laughed  at  us  because 
we  did  not  happen  to  know  that  the  Palais  Royal  was 
no  longer  the  "center  of  fashion."  No  matter, — 
we  want  to  see  it  anyway.  Why  not?  It  is  histori- 
cal,— filled  with  reminiscences, — we  want  to  see  it. 

Another  writer  laughs  at  some  young  girls  who 
have  come  to  Paris  to  study  painting,  because  he 
overheard  them  say,  in  a  plain  little  restaurant  where 
there  was  nothing  in  particular  exciting,  "How  Bo- 
hemian!" Well,  why  not?  It  is  a  credit  to  those 
little  American  girls  that  they  did  find  it  "Bohe- 
mian,"— it    speaks    well    for    their    home    training. 

They  will  lose  their  illusions  soon  enough,  but 

Well,  the  French  do  not  laugh  at  us.  All  kinds  of 
things,  amusing  and  otherwise,  are  liable  to  happen 
to  people  in  our  own  country,  among  familiar  sur- 
roundings and  where  they  understand  the  language 
spoken,  so,  why  not  in  Paris? 


156  PARIS 

Mr.  John  L.  Stoddard  tells  of  an  amusing  incident 
in  Paris,  but  which  might  happen  elsewhere  as  well: 

In  Paris,  when  the  seats  are  occupied  [referring  to  the  omni- 
buses], the  little  sign  "Complet"  [which  means  rilled]  inexorably 
keeps  out  all  intruders.  This  leads  sometimes  to  strange  mis- 
takes on  the  part  of  tourists,  one  of  whom  is  said  to  have  declared: 
"I  have  visited  every  place  in  Paris  except  Complet;  but  when- 
ever I  have  seen  an  omnibus  bearing  that  name  it  would  not  stop 
for   me!" 

Well,  that  is  nothing! 

One  day,  while  I  was  stopping  at  the  Grand  Hotel, 
a  young  woman  called  out,  clear  across  the  table,  to 
some  persons  with  whom  she  was  acquainted,  and 
asked,  in  a  loud  tone,  what  all  those  little  "Bhyrrs" 
were  all  over  the  town.  There  was  a  silence, — then 
every  one  grinned.  Really!  How  should  she  know? 
They  were  the  public  conveniences  that  spoil  every 
Boulevard  in  the  city,  and  this  foolish  little  sign  of 
something  or  other,  was  painted  in  red  and  yellow 
letters  over  the  tops  of  every  blessed  one  of  them. 
She  thought  that  was  the  name  of  the  place,  what- 
ever it  was.  Of  course,  these  things  are  always 
funny, — to  the  other  party.  In  spite  of  my  sym- 
pathy, I,  too,  laughed, — we  all  laughed.  Who  could 
help  it? 


CHAPTER  XVI 

CAFE-CONCERTS.      CAB  HORSES.      PARIS  CROWDS 

One  evening  Monsieur  Frangais  invited  me  to 
accompany  himself  and  wife  to  a  cafe  known  as  the 
Cafe  Rouge.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  had  an 
opportunity  to  go  out  at  night  since  the  departure 
of  the  Whatleys,  and  I  was  delighted. 

This  cafe  was  fitted  up  with  mirrors  on  the  walls, 
and  red  velvet  chairs.  On  the  backs  of  the  chairs 
were  little  brackets  upon  which  to  stand  cups  and 
glasses,  for  every  one  who  enters  must  buy  some  re- 
freshment: that  is  the  rule  of  this  cafe.  There  were 
no  tables. 

I  understand  that  none  except  high-class  music  is 
ever  performed  here.  Certain  it  was,  that  a  magnifi- 
cent program  was  rendered  that  evening.  The  men 
smoked,  drank  their  coffee,  beer,  or  wine;  the  women 
generally  drank  coffee  or  wine,  and  no  one  spoke  a 
word.  Except  for  the  music,  I  believe  you  could 
have  heard  a  pin  drop.  Evidently  the  patrons  were 
all  music  lovers. 

These  cafe-concerts  are  very  popular  with  the 
French  people,  and  nightly  the  crowds  congregate 
to  hear  good  music,  which  is  offered  to  them  for  the 
price  of  a  cup  of  coffee. 

x57 


158  PARIS 

After  we  left  the  cafe, — at  one  in  the  morning, — 
we  walked  for  a  long  distance  before  we  finally  took 
a  carriage  for  home. 

It  was  all  serene,  with  the  peace  of  the  quiet  night- 
time. The  streets  were  very  dark.  The  houses 
loomed  up  through  the  blackness  like  huge  specters. 

Not  to  see  a  city  by  night  is,  to  my  mind,  a  great 
loss.  The  night  silence  of  a  great  city's  streets,  of 
its  tall,  shadowy  houses  lined  up  in  long,  somber 
rows,  the  mysterious  shadows  cast  by  Heaven  knows 
what;  the  strange,  unfamiliar  sounds;  the  soft,  dense 
shadows  of  waving,  rustling  foliage  overhead;  the 
terrifying  ghostly  outlines  of  flying  automobiles, — 
their  great  spectral,  fiery  eyes  glaring  down  through 
the  black  caverns  of  streets,  or  staring  at  one  through 
the  dark  penumbra  of  the  long  lines  of  trees;  the 
sudden  blare  of  horns  that  makes  one  jump'  and 
start;  the  blurred  figures  scurrying  along  the  side- 
walks on  the  other  side  of  the  street, — all  lend  some 
indefinable  something  to  the  dim  night  walk  that 
is  never  to  be  seen  or  felt  in  a  daylight  ramble 
through  the  same  thoroughfares.  It  creates  a  subtle, 
and  at  the  same  time,  a  powerful  impression.  One 
can  feel  the  night,  the  mystery  of  it.  When  one 
searches  for  all  these  things  in  the  daytime, — 
presto!  they  are  gone! 

It  looked  as  though  all  the  buildings,  the  domes, 
the  spires,  and  the  towers  that  create  the  wonderful 
sky-line  of  Paris  had  been  removed;  not  an  outline 
could  be  seen  through  the  impenetrable  blackness, — 
only  dim  blotches. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  159 

The  "silvery  shimmer"  of  the  moonlit  river  was 
gone, — it  was  black  as  the  night  itself,  and  the  lights 
from  numbers  of  barges  and  boats,  from  the  lamps 
along  the  banks,  and  from  the  lights  flung  over  the 
bridges,   only  intensified  its  wrinkled  blackness. 

A  cab  with  a  blue  light  came  along.  The  driver 
cracked  his  whip  in  an  insinuating  way,  and  Mon- 
sieur Francais  called  out  something, — I  did  not  un- 
derstand what  it  was, — and  in  we  got. 

In  Paris  only  carriages  with  lights  of  a  certain 
color  go  to  certain  localities.  If  one  cannot  find  his 
own  particular  "light,"  it  is  optional  with  the  driver 
whether  he  takes  you  home  or  not.  If  he  does  con- 
descend to  do  so,  rest  assured  the  tip  will  be  large 
enough.  And  who  could  blame  them?  So,  I  pre- 
sume we  were  fortunate  enough  to  have  happened 
upon  our  own  color. 

However,  we  soon  reached  the  brilliantly-lighted 
Champs  Elysees.  The  beautiful  roadway  was  cov- 
ered with  silvery  splotches  of  light  between  the  elon- 
gated shadows  of  the  trees,  which  showed  green  as 
emerald  through  the  shining  electric  lights  behind 
them. 

These  Parisians  must  go  to  bed  early,  for  there 
was  scarcely  a  light  burning  in  a  private  house  from 
the  Palais  de  l'Elysee  to  the  Arc  de  Triomphe, — all 
was  in  darkness  except  the  still,  brilliantly-lighted 
cafes-chantants,  which  lay  back  behind  the  trees  in 
the  intermittent  flare  and  shadow. 

The  poor  cab  horses!  So  much  has  been  said  of 
the  cab  horses  of  Paris  that  it  sounds  banal  to  men- 


i6o  PARIS 

tion  them;  but,  truly,  they  do  have  a  style  of  archi- 
tecture all  their  own, — peculiarly  their  own,  I  am  in- 
clined to  think,  for  I  have  never  seen  any  equal  to  it, 
anywhere:  razor  backs,  extraordinarily  long  ears, 
strangely  constructed  knees,  and  uncertain  age. 
Some  of  them  are,  perhaps,  Rubenses  or  Rem- 
brandts, — or  some  of  the  other  Old  Masters! 

It  might  not  be  kind  for  a  mere  observer  to  say 
that  drivers  were  unkind  to  their  poor,  four-legged 
co-workers,  but  I  hope  that  the  horses  understand 
and  take  it  all  in  good  part.  Perhaps  they  do,  as 
they  speak  French  and  seem  to  understand  every 
word  of  the  choice  invectives  showered  upon  them 
in  such  unlimited  vocabularies. 

To  stand  at  night  in  the  shadow  of  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe  and  look  down  the  Champs  Elysees,  and 
the  ten  or  twelve  other  streets  and  avenues  that  ra- 
diate from  this  point,  is  to  experience  an  Arabian 
Nights'  vision.  The  dozen  "Great  White  Ways" 
are  so  many  streams  of  light  flowing  to  so  many 
points  of  the  universe.     It  makes  one  contemplative. 

On  several  occasions  Miss  Ahnrate  and  I  took  a 
carriage,  and  rode  down  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  in  the 
evening,  just  to  see  the  beauty  of  the  streets  at  night. 
For  miles  this  street  is  lighted  so  that  it  is  almost  as 
light  as  day;  and  on  the  Boulevards,  there  is  a  per- 
fect blaze  of  colored  lights  as  well  as  of  white  lights, 
shining  through  the  foliage  of  the  long  lines  of  green 
trees, — a  very  unusual  sight,  as  large  cities  so  seldom 
allow  trees  to  grow  in  their  busy  thoroughfares.  It 
only  proves  that  it  can  be  done. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  161 

A  ride  on  the  top  of  a  double-decked  'bus  from 
the  Madeleine  to  the  Place  de  la  Bastille  in  the  eve- 
ning, when  all  the  city  is  ablaze  with  light,  is  one 
of  the  most  interesting  and  diverting  rides  to  be 
found  in  the  whole  world,  I  believe;  and  so  Miss 
Ahnrate  and  I  found  the  top  seat  of  an  omnibus  pref- 
erable to  a  carriage  for  that  purpose. 

One  evening  we  took  the  mother  of  Madame 
Francais  with  us,  and  she  climbed  up  to  the  top  of 
the  'bus  with  the  agility  of  a  girl  in  her  'teens  (she 
must  have  been  sixty,  at  the  least).  The  dear  little 
old  lady!  She  knew  Paris  like  a  book,"  and  pointed 
out  this  and  that  place,  with  always  something  to 
tell  of  every  one  of  them.  According  to  her  ac- 
counts, there  are  ghosts  and  spooks  all  over  Paris. 

It  is  one  thing  to  see  all  these  things,  but  it  is  quite 
another  matter  to  describe  them,  but  De  Amicis  has 
succeeded  to  a  wonderful  extent.     He  says : 

The  boulevards  are  blazing.  The  shops  cast  floods  of  brilliant 
light  half  way  across  the  streets,  and  encircle  the  crowds  in  a 
golden  haze.  The  illuminated  kiosques,  extending  in  two  inter- 
minable rows,  resembling  enormous  Chinese  lanterns,  give  to 
the  street  the  fantastic  and  childlike  aspect  of  an  Oriental  fete. 
The  numberless  reflections,  the  thousands  of  luminous  points  shin- 
ing through  the  trees,  the  rapid  motion  of  the  innumerable  car- 
riage lights  that  seem  like  myriads  of  fire-flies,  the  purple  lamps 
of  the  omnibuses,  the  hundred  thousand  illuminated  windows,  all 
these  theatrical  splendors  half  conceal  the  verdure  which  now 
and  then  allows  a  glimpse  of  the  distant  illuminations,  and  pre- 
sents the  spectacle  in  progressive  scenes. 

All  this  produces  at  first  an  indescribable  impression  on  the 
stranger.  It  seems  like  an  immense  display  of  fire-works,  which 
suddenly  extinguished  will   leave  the  city  buried  in  smoke. 

This  was  all  true,  and  more;  but  while  exceedingly 
beautiful,  would  not  be  apt  to  impress  an  American 


162  PARIS 

(who  is  used  to  brilliant  street  illuminations)   as  it 
would  the  beautiful-souled  Italian. 

Many  times  we  would  spend  our  evenings  just 
riding  about,  through  the  bright  streets,  watching 
the  crowds  at  the  cafes,  or  filing  theaterward,  and 
enjoying  the  huge  spectacle. 

The  thing  that  impresses  me  most  is  the  absence 
of  hurry  and  rush.  These  people  are  orderly  and 
methodic;  they  move  along  to  whatever  their  desti- 
nation may  be,  in  a  leisurely  manner,  without  any 
agonizing  rush  or  undue  haste,  which  is  very  satisfy- 
ing to  the  observer. 

I  should  admire  the  French  (if  for  no  other  rea- 
son) because  of  the  tender  manner  in  which  they 
treat  their  old  people.  Any  old  person  in  the  house 
is  treated  almost  as  a  goddess  of  the  household.  Our 
little  old  lady  was  the  real  goddess  of  the  family 
with  whom  I  was  staying.  They  deferred  to 
"Maman"  in  everything, — or  what  she  wanted  to 
do,  or  have  done.  I  have  seen  picnickers, — parties 
out  in  the  country  for  an  outing  (parties,  here,  par- 
ties there,  in  the  Bois,  everywhere),  and  almost  in- 
variably, there  was  an  old  lady  in  the  party,  every 
one  present  giving  her  the  greater  share  of  attention. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  TOMB  OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 

One  afternoon  Miss  Ahnrate  and  I  started  out 
for  a  little  prowl  about  the  neighborhood,  my  mind 
busy  with  what  I  saw;  hers,  busy  with  Home  Rule 
for  Ireland,  as  her  intermittent  conversation  indi- 
cated. 

While  wandering  about  the  Trocadero,  I  sud- 
denly espied  a  small  cemetery,  and  suggested  at  once 
that  we  go  in  and  call  upon  this  silent  company,  in 
this  silent  city.  Reading  tombstones  may  not  be  a 
hilarious  form  of  amusement,  but  it  is  one  replete 
with  melancholy  interest  to  those  who  find  pleasure 
in  looking  upon  these  last  resting-places  of  the  great 
sons  of  men.  And  of  them  there  are  a  goodly  com- 
pany in  Paris. 

This  was  Passy.  We  went  in,  at  a  modest  little 
gateway,  and  were  quietly  talking  as  we  walked  along 
the  neat  paths,  looking  at  this  monument  or  that  one, 
when  I  saw  at  a  short  distance,  behind  some  tall 
trees,  a  snowy-white  mausoleum  much  resembling  a 
mosque, — something  that  looked  Mohammedan,  or 
Russian, — and  we  started  at  once  for  it.  Upon 
reaching  it,  we  found  it  to  be  the  tomb  of  poor  little 
Marie  Bashkirtseff !  I  had  supposed  that  she  was 
buried  somewhere  in  Russia. 

163 


1 64  PARIS 

As  I  stood  peering  in  through  the  glass  doors,  I 
suddenly  heard  the  dull  throbbing  of  funeral  music, 
and  for  an  instant  could  not  decide  whether  I  was 
"hearing  things"  or  whether  I  really  had  heard 
music.  I  turned  quickly  around,  looking  for  I 
scarcely  knew  what,  and  Miss  Ahnrate  was  standing 
there,  at  the  edge  of  the  walk,  looking  down  the 
narrow  roadway.  A  funeral  was  coming  in  through 
the  entrance.  A  black  funeral  car,  with  no  glass  at 
the  sides,  bore  the  casket  that  lay  on  a  sort  of  pyr- 
amid in  the  open  space,  almost  completely  covered 
with  flowers.  Men,  dressed  in  black  "dress  suits" 
and  tall  silk  hats,  walked  at  the  sides  and  formed 
a  procession  in  the  rear,  their  white-gloved  hands 
hanging  at  their  sides.  A  band  of  music  marched 
in  front,  all  their  instruments  muffled. 

I  only  stood  long  enough  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
the  little  procession,  then  fled  behind  the  tomb  of 
Marie,  so  that  I  could  howl  and  wail  without  being 
seen.  No  matter  who  it  is,  I  am  always  chief 
mourner.  I  have  no  need  to  know  the  one  in  a 
casket, — I  howl  anyway.  And  funeral  music  in  ad- 
dition !    No,  I  could  not  bear  that. 

Soon  the  somber  procession,  with  its  muffled  music, 
passed  by  to  another  part  of  the  cemetery,  and  I 
came  out  from  my  retreat. 

We  peered  in  through  the  glass  doors  of  Marie's 
tomb  at  the  white  marble  bust  of  the  beautiful  young 
girl,  which  was  standing  on  a  pedestal  over  in  one 
corner,  the  eyes  bent  in  a  pensive  look  down  upon 
the  spot  where  all  that  remained  of  her  beautiful 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  165 

body  was  reposing  in  its  long  sleep.  The  body  was 
not  put  into  the  ground,  but  is  lying  in  its  casket  in 
a  marble-lined  bed  in  the  middle  of  the  tomb,  a  slab 
of  marble  covering  the  opening,  which  can  be  raised 
at  any  moment. 

A  little  altar  is  built  at  one  end  of  the  tomb,  which 
has  upon  it  a  cross  and  some  flowers.  Stretched 
across  one  wall,  is  a  large  unfinished  picture,  which 
I  think  is  of  her  Holy  Women  about  which  she 
talked  so  much.  It  was  merely  a  sketch,  the  outlines 
very  dim.  Lying  there,  also,  was  the  manuscript  copy 
of  her  "Journal."  At  one  side  stood  a  chair.  It  all 
appealed  to  me  as  pathetic,  considering  the  many 
plans  she  had  formed  and  was  so  intent  upon  accom- 
plishing, when  death  stopped  it  all. 

A  few  days  before  her  death,  she  wrote  in  her 
"Journal": 

I  have  not  been  able  to  go  out  for  the  past  few  days.  I  am 
very  ill,  although  I  am  not  confined  to  bed.  .  .  .  Ah,  my  God! 
and  my  picture,  my  picture,  my  picture!  ...  I  have  a  constant 
fever  that  is  sapping  my  strength.  I  spend  the  whole  day  in  the 
drawing-room,  going  from  the  easy-chair  to  the  sofa,  and  back 
again.  I  cannot  leave  the  house  at  all,  but  poor  Bastien-Lepage 
is  still  able  to  go  out,  so  he  had  himself  brought  here  and  in- 
stalled in  an  easy-chair,  his  feet  supported  by  cushions.  I  was 
bv  his  side,  in  another  easy-chair,  and  so  we  remained  until  six 
o'clock. 

I  was  dressed  in  a  white  plush  morning-gown  trimmed  with 
white  lace,  but  of  a  different  shade.  .  .  .  "Ah,  if  I  could  only 
paint!"  he  said.  And  I!  .  .  .  There  is  an  end  to  this  year's 
picture. 

And  now,  here  she  lies!  The  last  entry  she  ever 
made  in  her  "Journal,"  was  written  just  eleven  days 
before  she  died, — Monday,  October  20,   1884: 


1 66  PARIS 

Although  the  weather  is  magnificent,  Bastien-Lepage  comes  here 
instead  of  going  to  the  Bois.  He  can  scarcely  walk  at  all  now; 
his  brother  supports  him  under  each  arm;  he  almost  carries  him. 
By  the  time  he  is  seated  in  his  easy-chair,  the  poor  fellow  is 
exhausted.  Woe  is  me!  And  how  many  porters  there  are  who 
do  not  know  what  it  is  to  be  ill!  Emile  is  an  admirable  brother. 
He  it  is  who  carries  Jules  on  his  shoulders  up  and  down  their 
three  flights  of  stairs.  Dina  [a  cousin]  is  equally  devoted  to 
me.  For  the  last  two  days  my  bed  has  been  in  the  drawing-room, 
but  as  this  is  very  large,  and  divided  by  screens,  poufs,  and  the 
piano,  it  is  not  noticed.     I  find  it  too  difficult  to  go  upstairs. 

And  she  died  eleven  days  later,  just  twenty-four 
years  of  age.  Who  would  not  stop  long  enough  to 
whisper  one  little  prayer? 

The  following  was  written  by  Francois  Coppee, 
and  was  "printed  in  the  'Catalogue  of  Marie  Bash- 
kirtseff's  Paintings'  exhibited  in  Paris  in  1885,  shortly 
after  her  death" : 

At  this  moment  Mile.  Bashkirtseff  appeared.  I  saw  her  but 
once.  I  saw  her  only  for  an  hour.  I  shall  never  forget  her. 
Twenty-three  years  old,  but  she  appeared  much  younger.  Rather 
short,  but  with  a  perfect  figure,  an  oval  face  exquisitely  modeled, 
golden  hair,  dark  eyes  kindling  with  intelligence — eyes  consumed 
by  the  desire  to  see  and  to  know  everything — a  firm  mouth, 
tender  and  thoughtful,  nostrils  quivering  like  those  of  a  wild 
horse  of  the  Ukraine. 

At  the  first  glance,  Mile.  Bashkirtseff  gave  me  the  rare  im- 
pression of  being  possessed  by  strength  in  gentleness,  dignity  in 
grace.  Everything  in  this  adorable  young  girl  betrayed  a  superior 
mind.  .  .  . 

She  replied  to  my  congratulations  [about  the  acceptance  of  her 
picture  by  the  Salon]  in  a  frank  and  well-modulated  voice — 
without  false  modesty  acknowledging  her  high  ambitions,  and — 
poor  child!     Already  with  the  finger  of  death  upon  her.  .  .  . 

It  was  time  for  me  to  leave,  and  moreover  for  a  moment  I 
experienced  a  vague  apprehension,  a  sort  of  alarm — I  can  scarcely 
call   it   a  presentiment. 

Before  that  pale  and  ardent  young  girl  I  thought  of  some 
extraordinary  hothouse  plant,  beautiful  and  fragrant  beyond 
words,  and  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  a  sweet  voice  murmured,  "It 
is  too  much!" 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  167 

Alas!  It  was  indeed  too  much!  A  few  months  after  my  one 
visit  to  the  Rue  Ampere,  I  received  the  sinister  notice  bordered 
with  black,  informing  me  that  Mile.  Bashkirtseff  was  no  more. 
She  had  died  .  .  .  having  taken  a  cold  while  making  a  sketch 
in  the  open  air. 

Once  again  I  visited  the  desolate  house.  The  stricken  mother, 
a  prey  to  a  devouring  and  arid  grief,  unable  to  shed  tears, 
showed  me,  for  the  second  time,  in  their  old  places,  the  pictures 
and  books.  She  spoke  to  me  for  a  long  time  of  her  poor  dead 
child,  revealing  the  tenderness  of  her  heart,  which  her  intellect 
had  not  extinguished.  She  led  me,  convulsed  by  sobs,  even  to 
the  bed-chamber,  before  the  little  iron  bedstead,  the  bed  of  a 
soldier,  upon  which  the  heroic  child  had  fallen  asleep  forever.  .  .  . 

But  why  try  to  influence  the  public?  In  the  presence  of  the 
works  of  Marie  Bashkirtseff,  before  that  harvest  of  hopes,  wilted 
by  the  breath  of  death,  every  one  would  surely  experience,  with 
an  emotion  deep  as  my  own,  the  same  profound  melancholy  as 
would  be  inspired  by  edifices  crumbling  before  their  completion. 

Yes,  there  she  was!  And  she  must  have  been  as 
lovely  as  the  word-picture  of  Coppee,  if  that  marble 
in  the  corner  resembles  her. 

But  she  is  not,  as  I  have  heard  said,  forgotten. 
The  art  students  at  the  house  tell  me  that  almost  the 
first  thing  a  new  student  does  after  securing  lodg- 
ings, is  to  buy  a  copy  of  her  "Journal," — that  it 
has  practically  become  a  sort  of  text-book  to  every 
student  in  Paris, — certainly  to  those  in  the  Julien 
Studios.  It  is  filled  with  the  criticisms  and  instruc- 
tions of  the  great  Julien  himself,  as  well  as  those  of 
Tony  Robert- Fluery,  and  Jules  Bastien-Lepage ;  suf- 
ficient, I  should  think,  to  make  a  good  text-book  for 
any  student. 

In  her  "Journal,"  Tuesday,  August  21,  1883,  she 
says: 

And  my  will?  All  I  shall  ask  in  it  will  be  a  statue  and  a 
picture,  the  one  by  Saint-Marceaux,  the  other  by  Jules  Bastien- 
Lepage,    placed   in   a   conspicuous   position    in    a   chapel    in   Paris, 


168  PARIS 

and  surrounded  by  flowers;  and  on  each  anniversary  of  my  death 
that  a  mass  of  Verdi  or  of  Pergolesi,  and  other  music,  may  be 
sung  by  the  most  celebrated  singers  in  remembrance  of  me.  .  .  . 

And  so  it  is !  On  each  anniversary  of  her  death, 
mass  is  sung  in  the  Madeleine,  just  as  she  had 
wished;  and  I  am  told  (although  of  this  I  cannot 
be  positive,  as  I  have  never  attempted  to  attend) 
that  now  the  crush  has  become  so  great  that  tickets 
are  required;  that  a  certain  number  are  distributed 
to  the  students  at  the  different  studios;  that  all  the 
great  ones  of  the  city  seek  admittance  to  this  mass 
in  remembrance  of  Marie  Bashkirtseff.  Grace  to 
the  dead ! 

That  reminded  me  that  I  had  not  yet  been  to  the 
Gallery  of  the  Luxembourg,  where  the  picture  so 
often  mentioned  in  Marie  Bashkirtseff's  "Journal," 
(entitled  The  Meeting)  now  hangs. 

Miss  Ahnrate  and  I  set  out  the  very  next  after- 
noon to  pay  our  visit  to  the  picture  gallery  of  the 
Luxembourg,  which  is  not  in  the  palace  itself,  but  in 
a  modern  structure  erected  at  a  short  distance  from 
the  Petit  Luxembourg,  which  is  the  official  residence 
of  the  President  of  the  Senate.  The  main  palace 
itself  is  the  seat  of  the  Senate. 

How  beautiful  are  these  sweet,  old-world  gardens 
of  the  Luxembourg. 

After  entering  the  picture  gallery,  we  traversed 
several  rooms  before  we  found  the  picture  we  sought. 
Yes,  there  they  were !  hung  up  on  the  wall, — the 
ragged  little  urchins !  On  the  30th  day  of  April, 
1884,  Marie  Bashkirtseff  entered  in  her  "Journal": 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  169 

Things  are  not  so  bad,  after  all,  for  the  Gaulois  speaks  very 
well  of  me;  it  gives  me  a  separate  notice.  The  article  is  very 
chic.     It  is  by  Fourcaud,  the  Wolff  of  the  Gaulois. 

The  Voltaire  treats  me  in  the  same  fashion  as  the  Gaulois. 
Both  notices  are  important  ones.  The  Journal  des  Arts  also  men- 
tions me,  and  L'lntransigeant  speaks  of  me  in  terms  of  praise. 
...  It  is  only  the  Figaro,  the  Gaulois  and  the  Voltaire  that  give 
a  general  mention  of  the  pictures  on  varnishing  day.  Am  I  satis- 
fied? It  is  very  easy  to  answer  that  question;  I  am  neither  satis- 
fied nor  dissatisfied.  My  success  is  just  enough  to  keep  me  from 
being  unhappy;  that  is  all.  .  .  .  We  remained  for  a  long  time 
seated  on  a  bench  before  the  picture.  It  attracted  a  good  deal 
of  attention,  and  I  smiled  to  myself  at  the  thought  that  no  one 
would  ever  imagine  the  elegantly-dressed  young  girl  seated  before 
it,  showing  the  tips  of  her  little  boots,  to  be  the  artist.  .  .  . 

Have  I  achieved  a  success,  in  the  true,  serious  meaning  of  the 
word  ?     I  almost  think  so. 

The  mystery  of  the  picture,  to  me  individually, 
is  that  a  young  girl,  with  practically  unlimited  wealth 
at  her  command,  would  be  inclined  to  depict  this 
phase  of  life, — the  ragged  little  urchin  life.  I  write 
her  own  description  of  her  painting,  which  is  a  very 
accurate  one : 

Six  little  boys  in  a  group,  their  heads  close  together,  half- 
length  only.  The  eldest  is  about  twelve,  the  youngest  six.  The 
eldest  of  the  boys,  who  stands  partly  with  his  back  to  the  spec- 
tator, holds  a  bird's  nest  in  his  hands,  at  which  the  others  stand 
looking.      The    attitudes    are   varied    and    natural. 

The  youngest  boy,  whose  back  only  is  to  be  seen,  stands  with 
folded  arms  and  head  erect.  This  seems  commonplace,  according 
to  the  description,  but  in  reality  all  these  heads  grouped  together 
will    make    an   exceedingly   interesting   picture. 

It  is  an  interesting  picture.  The  varying  expres- 
sions on  boyish  faces,  especially  when  viewing  a  bird's 
nest,  could  not  be  more  accurately  and  vividly  por- 
trayed. One  of  them  is  a  devilish-looking  little 
urchin,    too,    with   hands   thrust   deep    down    in   his 


1 7o  PARIS 

pockets,  a  most  quizzical  expression  upon  his  face, — 
no  one  could  safely  prophesy  as  to  what  he  might 
do  next. 

Again:  Grace  to  the  dead! 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   LUXEMBOURG  GALLERY 

It  is  much  more  comfortable  to  visit  the  Luxem- 
bourg Gallery  than  the  Louvre,  because  the  Luxem- 
bourg is  much  smaller.  Also,  the  arrangement  of 
the  pictures  is  charming;  one  feels  very  much  at 
home, — as  if  it  might  be  possible  for  one  to  become 
somewhat  acquainted  with  its  treasures.  But  this 
acquaintance  requires  time :  one  must  come  again 
and  again. 

This  gallery  is  devoted  to  the  works  of  modern 
artists, — to  those  still  living,  as  well  as  to  those  re- 
cently dead.  Here  are  to  be  seen  the  works  of  Du- 
bois, Saint-Marceaux,  Chapu,  Barrias,  Currier-Bel- 
leuse,  Delaplanche,  Mercie,  and  numbers  of  others, 
in  sculpture;  and  in  painting,  we  may  spend  days  in 
looking  at  the  masterpieces  of  Henner,  Lefebvre, 
Carolus-Duran,  Cormon,  Baudry,  Breton,  Cabanal, 
Gervex,  Courbet,  and  others. 

The  place  is  filled  with  modern  art  treasures,  and 
it  is  a  real  pleasure  to  go  there  and  look  at  the  work 
of  artists  of  our  own  time, — people  who  seem  to  be; 
in  touch  with  ourselves,  and  of  whom  we  seem  more 
able  to  gain  some  understanding. 

I  like  to  go  and  ramble  among  these  works  of  the 

171 


172  PARIS 

modern  artists  after  a  time  spent  at  the  Louvre,  and 
feel  the  difference, — a  difference  that  can  readily  be 
sensed.  In  the  Louvre,  one  feels  as  if  he  were  trying 
to  sail  among  the  gods;  here  the  gods  have  come 
down  to  us  so  that  we  can  occasionally  catch  a 
glimpse  of  them,  and  a  faint  understanding  of  what 
they  are  trying  to  impart  to  us. 

It  is  never  well  to  be  positive  in  our  opinions  about 
things  we  do  not  thoroughly  understand,  but  it  seems 
to  me  that  the  work  of  the  artist  of  to-day  compares 
more  than  favorably  with  the  work  of  the  older 
painters. 

Witness  the  landscapes.  There  is  no  landscape  by 
any  of  the  old  masters  that  can  compare  with  the 
work  of  to-day. 

Getting  down  to  things  modern :  here  is  a  beau- 
tiful statue  of  Sarah  Bernhardt,  by  Gerome,  all  in 
colored  marble,  that  seems  like  an  old  friend  whom 
we  might  greet  and  ask  about  the  health  of  "Ca- 
mille." 

Rodin's  La  Pensee  is  a  curious  creation.  A  head, 
with  a  strange  sort  of  cap-like  headgear  on  it,  sticks 
out  from  a  great  block  of  stone.  The  face  does  not 
strike  my  fancy,  or  appeal  to  my  sense  of  the  really 
beautiful,  but  it  is  all  that  the  name  implies, — a 
thoughtful,  pensive  face,  the  mind  far  away,  leaving 
it  still  and  deeply  meditative. 

Mr.  James  Huneker,  in  writing  of  Baudelaire, 
says: 

Baudelaire    built    his    ivory    tower   on    the    borders   of    a    poetic 
Maremma,    which    every    miasma    of    the    spirit    pervaded,    every 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  173 

marsh  light  and  glow-worm  inhabited.  Like  Wagner,  he  painted 
in  his  sultry  music  the  profundities  of  abysms,  the  vastness  of 
space.  He  painted,  too,  the  great  nocturnal  silences  of  the  soul. 
.  .  .  Rodin,  too,  is  a  Baudelarian.  If  there  could  be  such  an 
anomaly  as  a  native  wood-note  evil,  it  would  be  the  lyric  voice 
of  this  poet, 

And,  I  suppose,  the  carvings  of  this  Rodin. 

His  Kiss  impresses  me  as  extremely  Baudelairian. 
This  work  attracts  and  holds  the  attention  until  it 
is  with  difficulty  the  eyes  turn  themselves  away.  So 
it  is  with  all  of  his  works;  but  at  the  same  time,  there 
is  always  that  feeling  of  "a  strange  spirit  from  me- 
dieval days."  One  interesting  point,  too,  from  a 
psychological  view,  is  the  fact  that  Rodin  was  an 
ardent  admirer  of  Baudelaire. 

There  is  an  attractive  painting  by  Sain,  called 
Excavations  at  Pompeii,  which  I  liked  because  of 
the  beautiful  faces  of  those  Italian  women,  working 
there  in  the  blazing  heat,  carrying  the  baskets  heaped 
up  with  the  dirt  and  lava,  which  had  been  carefully 
dug  away  from  the  buried  ruins, — all  in  their  bare 
feet. 

What  happiness  these  people  must  have  exper- 
ienced,— these  wonderful  artist  people  ! — to  be  able 
to  go  about  with  heads  and  hearts  filled  with  these 
beautiful  creations:  visions,  landscapes,  seas  and 
skies.  To  be  able  to  interpret  what  one  sees  is  great- 
ness as  well  as  joy.  One  absolutely  ignorant  of  the 
grammar  and  rhetoric  of  art  must  still  be  enriched 
and  ennobled  by  its  contemplation.  For  the  eyes 
must  thereby  be  opened  to  the  beauties  of  nature. 

One  never  seems  to  appreciate  or  understand  the 


i74  PARIS 

real  difference  in  light  until  he  undertakes  to  see 
pictures  in  these  galleries.  To  see  them  in  the  morn- 
ing light  is  best,  though  just  why,  it  might  be  diffi- 
cult to  say.  Light  is  light.  Yes;  but  the  afternoon 
glow  over  the  great  galleries  is  shadowy  and  some- 
what somber;  in  the  morning,  there  is  a  brilliance  in 
the  light  that  wanes  with  the  day.  All  who  have 
been  there  will  understand  what  I  mean. 

One  might  really  consider  the  beautiful  Petit  Pa- 
lais, at  the  entrance  to  the  Champs  Elysees,  as  a 
continuation  of  the  Luxembourg  Gallery,  for  here 
are  to  be  seen  those  paintings,  sculptures,  and  other 
works  of  art  "purchased  by  the  City  of  Paris  at 
the  annual  Salons  since  about  1875." 

In  looking  upon  the  work  of  modern  artists,  at 
least  as  represented  in  these  collections,  one  notes 
an  almost  entire  absence  of  those  religious  subjects 
to  be  met  with  in  the  works  of  the  old  masters.  I 
saw  only  one  Mary  Magdalen  in  the  whole  collec- 
tion, and  that  was  by  Bastet;  and  but  one  Crucifixion, 
and  that  was  by  Henner.  Saints  and  angels  seem  to 
have  gone  entirely  out  of  fashion,  and  all  the  dread- 
ful instruments  of  the  Passion  have  been  almost  lost 
sight  of  in  the  more  peaceful  things  of  the  present 
day:  the  arts  and  crafts,  the  peaceful  home  life,  the 
beautiful  birds  and  flowers, — all  are  to  be  seen  now, 
instead  of  the  dreadful  things  of  the  long  ago. 

There  is  a  large  painting  called  The  Temptation 
of  Saint  Anthony,  which  is  amusing.  The  idea  that 
such  a  thing  would  be  a  temptation  to  a  man  like 
this  saint,  whose  mind  was  so  far  away  from  women 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  175 

of  the  world,  or  any  other  kind,  I  am  inclined  to  re- 
pudiate. The  picture  is  very  beautiful,  but  the  artist 
would  have  to  invent  some  other  kind  of  temptation 
to  make  it  seem  like  a  real  temptation  to  Saint  An- 
thony. For  some  reason  or  other,  this  particular 
saint  has  always  been  represented  by  the  artistic 
world  as  being  tempted  by  woman,  but  just  why,  I  do 
not  know. 

Here  is  also  a  beautiful  portrait  of  Marie  Bash- 
kirtseff.  If  one  enjoys  looking  on  at  what  is  being 
accomplished  in  our  own  day,  I  know  of  no  more  en- 
joyable a  place  than  the  Petit  Palais, — next  to  the 
Luxembourg  Gallery. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

PICNICKING   IN   THE    BOIS   DE   BOULOGNE.      FRENCH 

CUSTOMS 

Sometimes,  of  a  Sunday,  Miss  Ahnrate,  Mrs. 
Harmon,  and  I  would  take  our  lunches  and  go  to 
the  Bois  for  the  day.  Generally  we  would  go  by 
one  of  the  little  steamers,  get  off  at  Suresnes,  and 
cross  over  the  bridge  into  the  woods,  wandering 
about  until  we  came  to  the  right  spot.  Thereupon, 
both  of  my  companions  would  get  out  their  materials 

and  sketch And  I?     Well,  I  would  write,  read 

or  simply  lounge  in  the  grass,  allowing  my  mind  to 
wander  wheresoever  it  would,  keeping  an  eye  on 
the  various  picnic-parties  scattered  about  in  our 
vicinity. 

The  Bois  is  not  far  from  the  heart  of  Paris,  yet 
on  these  quiet  Sunday  mornings  it  seemed  thousands 
of  miles  away.  The  beautiful  green  of  the  velvety 
lawns  stretching  away  as  far  as  eye  can  reach,  the 
ceaseless  singing  of  the  birds,  the  shimmer  of  the 
waters  of  the  small  lakes  and  the  murmur  of  human 
voices  coming  to  one  in  gentle  waves  of  sound,  make 
a  subtle  but  powerful  impression.  One  never  forgets 
such  influences. 

Later  in  the  day  more  parties  would  come  and 

176 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  177 

sit  in  the  grass  and  have  their  luncheons:  bread  by 
the  yard  and  a  bottle  or  two  of  common  wine.  These 
picnic  parties  never  seemed  to  carry  anything  except 
bread  and  wine.  When  I  think  of  all  we  require 
for  a  picnic  dinner  (roast  chicken,  pies  and  cakes, 
pickles  and  cheese,  ice-cream  and  coffee)  I  begin  to 
wonder  at  the  frugality  of  these  French  picnic- 
baskets  and  the  joyousness  of  the  revelers  on  such 
slim  fare. 

After  having  our  own  luncheons,  we  would  walk 
and  walk,  ending  our  jaunt  always  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  one  of  the  cafes  in  the  Bois,  or  at  Suresnes. 

Upon  one  of  these  occasions,  we  went  to  a  beauti- 
ful cafe, — the  Chalet, — situated  on  a  little  island  in 
the  middle  of  the  Lac  Inferieur  in  the  Bois.  This 
cafe  is  built  in  the  style  of  a  Swiss  chalet,  and  very 
attractively  set  in  the  midst  of  its  green  background. 

People  were  coming  and  going  constantly  in  long 
streams  of  carriages  that  seemed  interminable. 

The  women  all  seemed  very  amiable  to  one  an- 
other, and  indulged  in  extremely  affectionate  greet- 
ings,— kissing,  French-fashion,  on  each  cheek, — not 
on  the  lips, — every  one  receiving  two  kisses. 

This  custom  of  cheek-kissing  might  cause  one  to 
ponder  a  little  on  how  in  the  world  do  they  manage 
the  "make-up"?  Of  course,  we  all  use  powder, — 
so  I  cannot  understand  how  they  dare  to  indulge  in 
such  affectionate  greetings.  We  can  side-step  the 
powder  difficulty  by  kissing  on  the  lips;  but  these 
people  kiss  on  the  cheeks,  and  do  not  seem  to  look 
any  the  worse  for  it. 


178  PARIS 

And  the  men,  too  !  Heaven  save  the  mark !  They 
kiss  each  other,  first  on  one  cheek,  then  on  the  other, 
just  as  do  the  women!  Perhaps  it  is  all  very  well; 
but  at  first  sight  it  seemed  ludicrous.  However,  one 
becomes  accustomed  to  anything,  in  time ;  and  I  do 
not  see  why  men  should  not  indulge  in  this  extreme 
form  of  greeting  if  they  so  desire.  I  am  not  sure 
that  mere  acquaintances  do  this, — the  custom  may  be 
practiced  only  between  old  friends  or  relatives. 

I  also  noticed  that  ladies  in  France  do  not  offer 
the  first  greeting  to  the  gentlemen, — that  matter 
is  left  to  the  stronger  sex.  The  man  must  take 
the  initiative.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  approve  this 
custom,  but,  as  ours  is  in  direct  opposition,  I  must 
make  allowance  for  prejudice. 

There  is  a  wonderful  atmosphere  in  Paris.  I  do 
not  know  just  what  it  is,  but  one  can  sense  it.  Its 
effect  is  to  make  one  full  of  unrest,  of  a  desire  to 
attain, — to  do  things.  One  soon  begins  to  want  to 
accomplish  something.  Just  what  I  scarcely  know; 
but  the  desire  is  to  study  and  acquire  knowledge. 
Such  unlimited  opportunity!  Art,  art,  everywhere! 
And  lessons  are  very  cheap.  It  seems  as  if  one 
might  almost  be  able  to  draw  and  paint  just  by  look- 
ing at  the  collections,  by  breathing  in  the  art  atmos- 
phere, and  listening  to  the  students'  talk. 

I  suppose  all  these  desires  are  immeasurably 
greater  than  the  ability  to  attain,  but  life  is  richer 
for  having  had  the  ability  to  desire.  One  is  judged 
as  much  by  his  desires  and  aspirations  as  he  is  by 
his  accomplishments  sometimes. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  179 

Strolling  about  one  afternoon,  engaged  in  that 
agreeable  pastime  of  doing  nothing,  Miss  Ahnrate 
and  I  came  upon  a  beautiful,  green  breathing-place. 
All  along  the  walks  people  were  sitting  in  the  chairs 
or  on  the  benches,  idly  looking  at  whoever  happened 
to  pass,  or  engaged  in  greetings  and  conversations 
with  one  another.  We  soon  discovered  an  attractive 
spot,  close  to  the  pond,  and  sat  down,  too,  to  see 
whatever  was  to  be  seen. 

I  saw  numbers  of  handsomely-gowned  women 
sitting  there,  under  the  trees,  busy  with  lace  work 
or  crochet,  watching  the  passers-by,  or  observing 
the  children  at  play. 

The  Pare  Monceau,  "that  trim  and  aristocratic 
garden," — a  beautiful  little  park  in  itself,  is  made 
still  more  attractive  by  the  statues  and  monuments 
of  the  "dearly  beloved"  that  are  scattered  through 
the  green  vistas. 

Here  is  a  beautiful  monument  to  Guy  de  Maupas- 
sant,— he  of  the  curling  hair  and  poetic  brain;  here 
is  also  Ambroise  Thomas,  with  his  dream  child  Mig- 
non  offering  him  a  great  bunch  of  flowers;  here  is 
Gounod,  surrounded  by  his  creations, — Marguerite, 
Juliette,  Sapho;  here  is  Chopin,  contemplating  that 
which  he  most  loved, — Harmony  and  Night, — with 
the  serene  consciousness  of  his  power  to  evoke  them 
at  will.  These  wonderful  men  and  their  dream- 
creatures  are  scattered  all  about, — one  meets  them 
at  every  turn. 

The  neighborhood  is  a  very  aristocratic  one,  and 
the  beautiful  homes   facing  the  park  have  all  the 


180  PARIS 

advantages  of  a  private  house  set  in  its  own  green 
woodland,  and  not  a  shadow  of  Montmartre  is  to 
be  met  with  in  a  stroll  through  its  quiet  precincts. 

We  sat  there  for  a  long  time,  enjoying  the  beau- 
ties all  about  us,  and  letting  our  minds  dwell  on  the 
things  they  represented,  and  then, — Heaven  pre- 
serve us!  went  to  a  cook-shop,  not  so  very  far  away, 
bought  a  chicken,  and  sat  at  a  table  on  the  sidewalk 
while  it  was  being  cooked,  and  then  ate  the  whole 
thing,  washing  it  down  with  sour  red  wine. 

The  stoves  of  these  cook-shops  are  not  like  our 
stoves;  they  are  more  like  forges,  covered  over  with 
a  roof.  They  use  "spits,"  which  are  placed  over  a 
charcoal  fire,  and  revolve  round  and  round,  until 
the  bird  is  done.  At  one  end  of  the  spit  is  a  small 
bell,  which  rings  at  the  moment  it  is  set  to  ring,  much 
after  the  manner  of  an  alarm-clock. 

People  come  into  these  shops,  order  a  chicken, 
a  steak, — anything, — then,  until  it  is  cooked,  sit  at 
a  table  out  on  the  sidewalk,  where  it  is  served  when 
ready.  I  often  went  to  these  cook-shops  for  things, 
whether  I  was  hungry  or  not,  just  to  enjoy  watching 
these  clock-like  "spits"  go  round  and  round.  A  long 
pan,  the  full  length  of  the  spit,  set  underneath, 
catches  all  the  grease  that  drops  from  the  roasting 
meats,  and  is  then  used  for  other  things.  Just  what 
I  do  not  know.  I  only  know  that  the  cook  is  very 
careful  to  catch  each  drop. 


CHAPTER  XX 

ART-STUDENT      LIFE.         ECOLE      DES      BEAUX      ARTS. 
SEVRES.     SAINT  CLOUD 

Later  on  I  became  acquainted  with  another  art- 
ist and  his  family.  This  man  was  one  of  my  own 
countrymen, — from  a  town  in  Ohio, — both  himself 
and  wife  being  students  at  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts 
(School  of  Fine  Arts).  Two  children  of  theirs,  a 
boy  and  a  girl,  were  attending  a  private  school. 

This  family  lived  in  a  small,  quiet  street  just  off 
the  Boulevard  Saint  Michel,  and  led  a  life  that, 
from  many  points  of  view,  appealed  to  me.  The 
question  of  finance  was  not  one  to  disturb  them  (that 
was  all  provided  for),  and  they  lived  here,  in  the 
Latin  Quarter,  among  students,  surrounded  by  all 
those  things  that  make  life  worth  the  living, — art, 
music,  and  congenial  companionship, — giving  them- 
selves up  to  the  study  and  pursuit  of  knowledge 
(painting  and  philosophy)  ;  both  taking  the  philo- 
sophical lectures  at  the  Sorbonne,  in  addition  to  do- 
ing their  art  work  at  the  Beaux  Arts. 

Every  Friday  evening  they  gave  an  "At  Home," 
to  which  came  many  students,  as  well  as  numbers 
of  other  clever  persons.  There  I  met  some  espe- 
cially   bright    and    enthusiastic   English    students, — 

181 


1 82  PARIS 

young  women,  who  seemed  to  think  of  nothing  but 
their  work  and  studies.  I  also  met  some  clever 
American  girls  who  were  studying  music.  These 
girls  lived  in  a  picturesque  old  mansion  not  far  from 
the  Bon  Marche,  and  one  afternoon  they  had  a 
"spread,"  to  which  I  was  invited. 

Upon  this  occasion  no  one  was  invited  but  Ameri- 
cans. They  made  peanut  candy,  and  some  things 
in  a  chafing-dish,  which  none  but  Americans  could 
comprehend.  Then  we  had  cake  and  several  other 
curious  "coincidences,"  and  very,  very  much  conver- 
sation. No  matter  how  much  one  may  like  a  foreign 
city  and  foreign  things,  there  is  something  about 
home  things  that  is  very  appealing  when  one  is  in  a 
strange  land.  The  odors  from  that  chafing-dish 
lingered  with  me  long  afterward. 

Not  long  after  that  one  of  these  girls  took  a  heavy 
cold,  and  died.  Her  poor  little  body  was  sent  back 
to  Cleveland  to  her  grief-stricken  parents.  But  we 
will  always  remember  that  "spread,"  and  how  joy- 
ous she  was  that  afternoon. 

Many  such  things  happen  to  girls  so  far  from 
home.  This  young  girl  was  a  magnificent  pianist, 
and,  perhaps,  had  she  lived  she  might  have  become 
famous.     Who  knows? 

In  speaking  of  the  School  of  Fine  Arts,  Mr.  Rich- 
ard Whiting  says: 

Admission  to  the  Beaux-Arts,  the  first  art  school  in  France, 
rnri  :r,  'he  v.or'd,  is  usually  obtained  by  application  to  a  pro- 
fessor for  leave  to  become  an  "aspirant"  member  of  his  class,  or, 
nan  taken  on  trial.  Most  Americans  go  to  Gerome,  and  Cabanal 
is  another  favorite  master. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  183 

The  student  calls  on  the  master  of  his  choice  to  show  his  draw- 
ings, and  if  they  are  approved,  he  generally  gets  leave,  forthwith, 
to  enter  the  professor's  class  at  the  great  school. 

This  first  interview  over,  the  next  meeting  will  be  in  the  Antique, 
at  a  very  early  hour,  when  the  professor  is  walking  the  great 
common  hall  in  which  all  the  "aspirants"  work.  His  men  rise  as 
he  approaches,  and  listen  with  an  air  of  profound  humility  to  his 
criticism.  They  never  get  nearer  to  him  than  that,  except  at  the 
annual  dinner,  to  which  each  Atelier  invites  its  professor. 

This  homage  to  the  professor  is  the  only  payment  at  the  Beaux- 
Arts,  where  the  poorest  lads  of  all  countries  get  the  first  teach- 
ing of  the  age  without  the  expenditure  of  a  sou. 

Some  day  the  professor  will  tell  the  student — in  answer,  perhaps, 
to  his  second  or  third  timid  application — that  he  may  leave  the 
"Antique"  for  the  "Atelier,"  where  they  draw  from  the  living 
model. 

Here,  after  a  short  probation  period  of  fagging,  he  will  enter 
upon  the  more  serious  part  of  the  course.  The  work  at  the 
Ateiier  is  done  in  the  morning;  and  to  fill  up  the  time  the  student 
often  goes  to  a  private  school  outside,  such  as  Julien's,  where 
Boulanger,  Lefebvre,  and  Tony  Fleury  teach. 

At  these  schools  you  enter  for  a  part  of  the  day,  or  for  the 
whole  day,  just  as  you  like.  The  fees  range  from  fifteen  francs 
to  forty  francs  a  month.  [Three  to  eight  dollars.]  This  meets 
the  wants  of  men  who  cannot  get  into  the  Beaux-Arts,  or  who  do 
not  care  to  try,  because  they  think  it  too  academical,  or  who  object 
to  its  many  holidays,  or  fancy  a  particular  master  outside.  .  .  . 
There  is  special  teaching  for  lady  art  students  at  Julien's,  and 
Carolus-Duran,  Chaplin,  Aublet,  etc.,  take  pupils. 

The  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts  is  an  enormous  school, 
housed  in  an  enormous  building,  or  rather  a  collec- 
tion of  buildings;  and  in  addition,  is  almost  an  art 
gallery  in  itself.  I  do  not  know  how  many  students 
are  enrolled,  but  there  must  be  hundreds  of  them, — 
one  meets  them  everywhere. 

One  of  the  things  of  interest  in  the  school  is  the 
great  painting,  the  Hemicycle,  by  Paul  Delaroche, 
in  the  amphitheater.  This  picture  represents  the 
schools  of  Art  of  many  ages,  and  according  to  Mr. 
E.  Reynolds-Ball: 


1 84  PARIS 

The  idea  of  the  picture  is  to  portray  the  classical  representatives 
of  the  arts — Apelles  for  Painting,  Phidias  for  Sculpture,  and 
Ictinus  (Parthenon)  for  Architecture, — distributing  prizes  to  the 
great  painters  and  sculptors  of  all   ages. 

In  this  composition  are  seventy-five  figures,  all  on  a  colossal 
scale.  The  muse  who  symbolizes  Gothic  Art,  represented  with 
long  hair  and  dressed  in  a  green  mantle,  is  said  to  be  a  portrait 
of  the  artist's  wife,  daughter  of  the  famous  painter  of  battle- 
pieces,  Horace  Vernet. 

He  also  says  that  this  "is  perhaps  the  finest  mod- 
ern work  of  the  kind  in  the  world." 

One  Saturday  I  went  with  the  artist  family  to 
spend  the  day  at  Sevres  and  Saint  Cloud.  That 
sounds  so  tame  and  uninteresting  when  the  excursion 
was  so  crowded  with  the  lovely  things  of  existence. 

We  went  out  by  steam  tram ;  we  took  seats  on  the 
"hurricane-deck,"  and  every  foot  of  the  way  was 
just  so  many  feet  of  beauty  and  romance  to  me.  I 
sat  there,  idly  watching  each  new  disclosure,  each 
new  view  of  the  landscape  never  seen  before. 

It  was  a  clear,  cool,  bright  day, — a  splendid  day 
for  a  ramble  of  any  sort.  From  our  elevated  posi- 
tion we  could  see  up  and  down  the  roadway;  we  could 
catch  glimpses  of  white-walled  houses  of  ancient  ap- 
pearance set  back  in  their  gardens,  the  soft  green 
of  the  grass  contrasting  vividly  with  the  darker  green 
of  the  rustling  trees.  Jars  of  porcelain,  filled  with 
flowering  plants,  were  in  many  of  the  windows  and 
on  the  balconies,  while  around  numerous  houses  were 
quite  high  walls,  mellowed  and  yellowed  by  time 
and  the  sunshine. 

We  went  through  several  small  villages, — mere 
hamlets, — all  looking  white   and   clean,   passing  in 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  185 

the  road  numbers  of  women  wearing  the  sabot  and 
carrying  huge  baskets  on  their  arms. 

Looking  back  toward  Paris  at  a  certain  point, 
the  wide  view  over  the  city  was  like  a  vast  rolling 
ocean  of  red-tiled  roofs, — a  perfect  sea  of  houses, 
row  after  row,  pierced  here  and  there  with  domes 
and  towers  and  steeples,  all  shining  and  shimmering 
in  a  golden  haze  of  sunlight. 

Turning  a  long  swinging  curve,  with  a  chug-chug, 
we  arrived  at  Sevres.  Of  course,  we  went  into  the 
porcelain  manufactory,  where  we  were  permitted  to 
wander  about,  and  where  I  feasted  my  bewildered 
eyes  on  the  thousand  and  one  magnificent  objects  by 
which  we  were  surrounded.  I  was  especially  inter- 
ested in  discovering  that  all  those  little  roses  and 
cherubs  and  garlands  are  really  painted  by  hand, — 
no  shop-made  work  in  them.  I  am  fearful  that  some 
of  those  "company"  things  we  show  at  home,  some- 
times, are  not  genuine;  no  matter!  So  long  as  we 
do  not  find  it  out,  it  will  not  spoil  our  enjoyment 
in  their  possession.  Knowledge  is  sometimes  cruel. 
A  piece  of  Sevres  costs  a  fabulous  sum.  But  no 
wonder!  Handwork  is  generally  expensive  to  all 
except  the  hand  that  actually  produces  it.  I  have 
an  idea,  however,  that  there  is  still  some  other  rea- 
son for  its  fabulous  cost. 

Later  on  we  went  for  dinner  to  the  strangest  sort 
of  place.  By  myself,  I  should  never  have  discovered 
it,  but  my  acquaintances  knew  all  sorts  of  delightful 
places  to  eat.  Something  good  to  eat  is  half  the 
pleasure  of  any  excursion,  to  my  mind. 


1 86  PARIS 

Downstairs,  there  was  just  a  small,  extremely 
common-looking  cafe,  of  which  an  old  lady  was  in 
charge.  She  greeted  my  companions  with  a  smile 
of  very  goodly  dimensions,  and  after  a  moment's 
conversation,  led  the  way  to  a  room  upstairs  that 
overlooked  a  garden  in  the  rear  of  the  house.  The 
walls  of  the  room  were  literally  covered  with  car- 
toons, sketches,  and  drawings  of  many  descriptions 
— humorous  and  otherwise.  This  was  evidently  a 
place  known  to  the  fraternity. 

A  large,  hospitable-looking  table  stood  in  the  cen- 
ter of  the  room,  and  chairs  sufficient  were  at  once 
brought  in, — the  old  lady  talking  and  gesticulating 
with  unabated  animation  as  each  item  of  the  pro- 
posed dinner  was  mentioned.  She  acted  as  if  we 
were  her  specially-invited  guests,  and  begged  of  us 
to  be  at  home. 

We  did  straightway;  the  father  laughing  and 
talking  with  his  children  with  all  the  joyous  insou- 
ciance of  a  boy.  It  would  have  been  an  impossi- 
bility not  to  have  been  happy,  and  the  louder  we 
laughed  the  more  the  old  lady  seemed  to  enjoy  it. 
She  came  in  with  each  course,  and  talked,  and  talked. 

More  veal  and  green  peas !  We  also  had  cauli- 
flower cooked  with  cheese,  and  many  good  things; 
the  whole  dinner,  including  wine  and  coffee,  costing 
us  only  about  fifty  or  sixty  cents  apiece. 

All  the  afternoon  we  wandered  about  the  beautiful 
country,  climbing  the  little  rolling  hills,  catching 
wonderful  views  from  first  one  point,  then  another, 
finally  wandering  into  the  park  of  Saint  Cloud.    And 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  187 

when  I  say  that  this  park  contains  one  thousand 
acres,  more  or  less,  one  can  readily  understand  that 
we  did  not  see  it  all  in  one  afternoon. 

It  is  a  great  pleasure  just  to  stroll  about,  letting 
the  mind  roam  as  it  will,  for  the  place  is  filled  with 
historical  associations,  which  can  be  made  to  live 
again  by  a  quiet  contemplation  of  the  grounds  so 
pregnant  with  them.  A  stone  here,  a  remnant  of 
a  step  there,  a  statue,  a  fountain, — all  tell  of  the  past. 
The  cascades  are  still  here,  and  one  wonders  at  the 
elegance  and  magnificence  of  the  past.  These  cas- 
cades of  Le  Notre's  were  displayed  for  the  first  time 
at  a  great  fete  given  by  Louis  XIV;  and  one  wonders 
what  the  beholders  thought  of  them  at  that  time. 
Here,  too,  in  the  palace  chapel,  is  where  Napoleon 
married  Marie  Louise.  Indeed,  the  place  is  filled 
with  phantoms;  but  one  must  regret  that  the  palace 
is  no  longer  there,  and  that  we  can  only  know  it 
by  hearsay. 

From  the  terrace  of  the  old  palace,  one  has  an 
exquisite  view  over  the  surrounding  country;  and 
from  the  platform  a  little  higher  up,  known  as  the 
Lanterne  de  Diogene,  the  view  is  unsurpassed. 

We  sat  there  for  a  long  time,  gazing  off  over  the 
Seine  winding,  like  a  silvery  thread,  through  the 
valley  below;  and,  afar  off,  through  a  gossamer- 
like haze,  we  could  see  the  snowy  church  of  the  Sacre- 
Cceur  on  the  Heights  of  Montmartre,  the  Oriental- 
looking  towers  of  the  Trocadero,  the  golden  dome 
of  the  Invalides,  of  the  Pantheon,  and  innumerable 
towers  and  steeples  of  churches. 


1 88  PARIS 

One  could  spend  days  in  roaming  about  the  place. 
This  is  not  so  much  the  place  to  study  history  as  it 
is  to  imbibe  impressions ;  then  the  history  of  Saint 
Cloud  becomes  a  living  thing.  It  would  be  a  beauti- 
ful place  in  any  event,  but  the  glamor  of  the  past 
throws  a  spell  over  all  its  natural  beauty,  adding  im- 
measurably to  its  attractiveness. 

The  little  town  itself  is  nothing, — a  mere  village. 
The  eating-houses  scattered  about  are  uninteresting, 
and  anything  but  picturesque.  However,  one  need 
not  look  at  them,  if  he  wants  to  dream  of  the  past. 

Many  days  after  this  first  visit  were  spent  in  the 
same  way, — dinner  with  the  old  lady,  then  rambles 
and  sketching  in  Saint  Cloud. 

The  two  children  of  my  artist  friends  fairly 
glowed  with  a  knowledge  of  the  past  that  had  been 
acquired  without  effort:  it  was  all  spread  out  before 
them,  so  that  their  knowledge  and  understanding 
was  of  a  kind  almost  impossible  to  acquire  from 
books  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  SORBONNE.  A  VISIT  TO  THE  JARDIN  DES  PLANTES 

Upon  another  occasion,  I  went  with  my  artist 
friends  to  the  Sorbonne,  the  University  of  Paris, 
where  they  attended  the  lectures  on  Philosophy. 

This  is  an  inspiring  place, — one  feels  the  atmos- 
phere at  once.  The  eye,  also,  is  pleased;  for  beauti- 
ful paintings  cover  the  walls,  exquisite  statuary 
adorns  the  rooms  and  halls.  Here  is  a  great  amphi- 
theater that  accommodates  about  four  thousand  per- 
sons; and  everything  is  present  that  will  tend  to 
stimulate  the  imagination  as  well  as  to  arouse  the 
intellect.  Baedeker  states  that  there  are  over  seven- 
teen thousand  students  in  the  five  faculties,  including 
three  to  four  thousand  women;  and  all  of  these  stu- 
dents receive  this  instruction  without  the  expendi- 
ture of  a  dollar.  The  lectures  are  free  to  all.  This 
is  another  one  of  the  beautiful  things  that  France 
does  for  the  world  at  large. 

Later  on  I  met  an  entrancingly  pretty  American 
girl.  She  had  been  graduated  from  Stanford,  and 
was  then  taking  lectures  at  the  Sorbonne,  but  con- 
fessed that  she  had  difficulty  once  in  a  while,  as 
French  in  Paris  seemed  to  be  pronounced  somewhat 
differently  from  that  at  Stanford. 

189 


190  PARIS 

In  the  Church  of  the  Sorbonne  is  the  tomb  of 
Cardinal  Richelieu, — somewhat  theatrical,  but  beau- 
tiful. A  sculptured  image  of  the  marvelous  man 
reclining  against  a  calm,  superb  woman  representing 
Religion;  at  the  foot,  is  a  doubled-up,  grief-stricken 
female  representing  Science, — all  in  marble.  I  can- 
not, however,  believe  that  the  sagacious,  all-powerful 
Cardinal,  ever  wore  that  resigned,  entranced  look 
upon  his  face  in  real  life. 

One  beautiful  day  the  American  family  and  I 
made  a  day  of  it  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes, — a  huge 
garden-park  of  seventy-five  acres,  filled  with  terri- 
ble, horrible  and,  at  the  same  time,  interesting  things. 

It  is  a  huge  botanical  garden,  filled  with  exquisite 
plants  and  flowers  of  every  known  description,  but, 
— there  are  horrible  reptiles  there,  curling  and  wrig- 
gling in  their  pavilions,  and  more  ferocious  animals 
than  would  be  found  in  half  a  dozen  circuses,  and 
around  which  is  always  a  throng  of  the  curious,  gaz- 
ing in  open-mouthed  wonder  at  these  terrible  crea- 
tures. Having  just  finished  reading  "The  Story  of 
Ab,"  I  was  more  interested  than  I  might  otherwise 
have  been  in  viewing  the  great  Anthropological  and 
Paleontological  collections. 

Here  one  sees  the  growth  and  development  of 
all  the  races  and  sub-races  of  mankind,  as  shown 
by  skeletons  and  casts,  and  one  stands  and  ponders 
a  bit  on  what  has  been  and  what  now  is.  This  must 
be  an  extremely  interesting  spot  to  the  savants  who 
devote  their  lives  to  these  studies. 

There  is  the  huge  Menagerie,  Botanical  Garden, 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  191 

Laboratories,  Library,  Lecture  Hall,  as  well  as 
various  Museums.  In  addition,  the  huge  garden  is 
decorated  by  statues  of  men  famous  in  this  particu- 
lar line  of  research,  huge  groups  of  marble  illustra- 
tive of  the  combat  between  men  and  animals,  and  so 
on. 

Stuffed  animals  abound  here;  and  there  are  great 
numbers  of  casts  which  have  been  taken  of  cele- 
brated criminals'  heads,  besides  there  are  numbers  of 
death-masks  of  famous  men,  which  almost  anybody 
would  find  interesting. 

With  its  vast  collections  of  plant  life, — as  well 
as  of  animal  life  past  and  present, — it  has  become 
really  a  vast  outdoor  university,  to  which  students 
and  savants  from  every  clime  come,  to  their  own 
pleasure  and  profit. 

We  returned  by  way  of  the  river,  in  that  soft, 
purple  evening  light  of  which  Paris  seems  to  have 
such  a  generous  supply;  and  while  the  scenery  along 
this  part  is  not  so  beautiful  as  it  is  further  along  (at 
the  other  end  of  the  City),  one  gains  some  idea  of 
the  vastness  of  the  shipping  interests  of  the  place. 
Large  wharves  and  warehouses  extend  for  a  great 
distance  along  the  river  front,  all  looking  huge  and 
shadowy  in  the  misty  light.    To  quote  an  authority: 

Paris  is  the  chief  mercantile  port  of  France.  More  than  18,000 
Craft  descend  the  river  annually  from  Paris,  and  more  than  23,000 
ascend  it;  and  about  seven  million  tons  of  goods  (valued  at  28,000,- 
000  francs)  are  entered  and  cleared  via  the  river.  This  water- 
borne  merchandise  consists  principally  of  building  materials,  wine, 
forage,  manures,  grain,  flour,  spirits  and  coal. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE    MONA    LISA.      THE    MESSAGE   OF    LEONARDO    DA 
VINCI.      THE    PAINTINGS    IN   THE    LOUVRE 

One  of  the  most  agreeable  opportunities  of  life 
must  have  presented  itself  when  one  finds  himself 
at  liberty  to  wander  through  the  Louvre  at  will, — 
through  miles  and  miles  of  paintings,  sculptures,  and 
other  treasures  of  art, — and  satiate  himself  with 
those  things  which  appeal  most  to  one's  sense  of  ap- 
preciation. If  one  is  rushed, — has  only  a  short  time 
at  his  disposal, — this  is  not  possible;  but  to  one  hav- 
ing an  abundance  of  time,  it  is  delightful  to  take 
one  painter  at  a  time,  study  his  pictures,  and  try  to 
form  some  opinion  as  to  his  message. 

As  there  are  over  a  thousand  paintings  in  the 
French  section  alone,  one  can  easily  understand  why 
it  would  require  time  to  even  glimpse  them  all. 

The  works  of  the  French  painters  attracted  me 
very  strongly  for  the  reason  that  I  was  on  French 
soil,  where  one  could,  supposedly,  see  their  work  to 
better  advantage  than  elsewhere.  Where  could  one 
hope  to  see  pictures  to  better  advantage  than  upon 
the  artist's  own  ground? 

Here  are  also  acres  and  acres  of  the  paintings  of 
foreign  artists, — the  work  of  artists  from  all  over 

192 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  193 

the  world.  I  doubt  if  any  one  has  really  seen  all 
there  is  to  be  seen  here,  for  the  place  covers  fifty 
acres  of  ground! 

I  had  wanted  to  see  the  Mona  Lisa  all  my  life, 
and, — here  she  was!  I  had  wanted  to  call  upon  her 
the  very  first  day  I  was  in  Paris,  but  got  switched  off 
to  the  Morgue  instead! 

Every  one  speaks  of  her  "inscrutable  smile,"  but 
I  see  the  same  smile,  or  rather  expression,  in  almost 
every  face  given  to  the  world  by  the  wonderful 
Italian. 

One  cannot  help  wondering  of  what  she  is  think- 
ing,— of  what  she  can  possibly  be  looking  at,  as  she 
sits  there,  slightly  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  chair. 
She  seems  to  be  a  little  amused  at  something, — 
something  that  is  not  revealed  to  us,  as  it  is  just  out 
of  the  range  of  our  vision.  She  is  not  uproarious 
over  it,  whatever  it  is, — simply  a  little  amused. 

I  looked  and  looked,  trying  to  find  out  why  people 
raved  over  it  so  much.  But,  after  all  my  scrutiny, 
still  I  don't  know;  I  have  never  discovered  the  rea- 
son for  its  tremendous  popularity.  I  found  that  I 
did  not  like  her  nose;  it  is  somewhat  repellent.  Her 
chin  was  too  pointed,  I  thought;  and  the  top  of  her 
pretty  face  seemed  too  heavy  for  the  lower  portion. 
That  is  merely  my  taste.  The  whole  world  says  she 
is  beautiful  beyond  words. 

Nearly  all  of  Leonardo's  women  look  at  one  from 
the  corners  of  their  eyes,  instead  of  straight  in  front, 
which  adds  somewhat  to  the  mysteriousness  of  their 
expressions.     So  much  has  been  written  of  this  one 


194  PARIS 

picture,  that  to  even  mention  it  seems  banal,  but 
while  it  is  a  strangely  attractive  face,  I  found,  after 
gazing  at  it  a  number  of  times,  that  I  did  not  think 
it  so  beautiful  after  all. 

That  same  expression  exists,  to  a  greater  or  less 
extent,  in  the  Virgin  of  the  Rocks.  It  is  also  to  be 
seen  on  the  face  of  the  beautiful  long-haired  angel 
squatting  at  the  left  side  of  the  Virgin.  Artists  make 
infants  perform  strange  feats.  The  infant  by  the 
side  of  the  beautiful,  long-haired  angel  has  twisted 
his  first  two  fingers  in  a  way  that  is  peculiar.  It 
could  not  be  done  by  an  infant.  We  tried  it  our- 
selves and  found  it  a  difficult  maneuver,  and  won- 
dered how  the  little  fat  baby  had  managed  it.  The 
Infant  Christ  holds  out  His  hands  in  a  sort  of  sup- 
plication to  the  angel  and  child,  and  I  could  not  im- 
agine why,  since  the  child  points  his  crossed  fingers 
at  Him,  and  the  beautiful  long-haired  angel  aims 
an  index  finger  at  the  Christ  child  while  looking  the 
other  way.  It  makes  one  long  to  understand  just 
what  the  artist  had  in  mind. 

The  rocks  in  the  background  look  unnatural, — 
uncanny.  One  would  hesitate  to  visit  that  spot  alone 
in  the  dark.  It  is  impossible  to  explain  or  try  to 
describe  paintings  with  mere  words;  their  meanings 
are  too  elusive. 

In  his  beautiful  picture  of  Saint  Anna,  the  Virgin, 
and  the  Infant  Jesus,  there  is  again  that  peculiar 
expression, — the  same  "inscrutable  smile."  This 
picture  is  an  expression  of  family  affection.  Saint 
Anna  is  holding  the  Virgin  upon  her  knees,  while 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  195 

the  Virgin  extends  her  arms  to  the  Infant  Jesus,  who 
is  lovingly  clasping  a  little  woolly  lamb.  Sweet  smiles 
are  on  all  the  faces;  even  the  little  woolly  lamb  is 
smiling  as  he  turns  an  inquiring  face  up  to  the  Virgin 
and  her  mother.  What  a  beautiful  woman  Leonardo 
da  Vinci  has  presented  to  us  in  Saint  Anna !  She 
is  Mona  Lisa  grown  older. 

The  paintings  of  Mantegna  seem  to  strike  a  note 
entirely  different  from  that  of  other  artists;  in  his 
crucifixion,  the  aerial  city,  which  seems  to  float  in  the 
background,  is  strange  and  suggestive;  one  feels  a 
desire  to  start  out  on  a  still  hunt  for  it,  and  when 
found,  to  wander  along  that  filmy  pathway  that 
seems  to  lead  up  to  the  gossamer-like  city  on  the 
hill.     But  no  one,  perhaps,  could  ever  find  it. 

In  this  Crucifixion,  the  soldiers  about  the  cross 
all  seem  like  gentlemen, — courtiers,  not  rude  Roman 
soldiers.     Mr.  Reynolds-Ball  says: 

This  painting,  perhaps  the  finest  example  of  Mantegna  in  the 
Louvre  or  elsewhere,  formed  the  predella  of  the  great  Madonna 
by  this  Master  in  San  Zeno  at  Verona.  Both  were  formerly  in 
the  Louvre,  but  at  the  Restoration  the  Madonna  was  returned  at 
San  Zeno. 

Mantegna's  Madonna  of  Victory  is  most  gor- 
geous. The  Madonna  is  seated  in  a  throne-like  chair 
of  rich,  dark  wood,  all  carved  and  studded,  while 
over  her  is  a  canopy  formed  like  a  great  spreading 
shell,  almost  covered  with  jewel-like  flowers,  and 
leaves,  and  vines.  Theophile  Gautier  has  said  of 
this  picture: 

This  masterpiece  is  a  page  of  chivalry  in  a  frame  of  chastity. 
These  warrior  saints,  these  rich  decorations,  and  this  profusion  of 


196  PARIS 

flowers  and  jewels  give  to  religion  an  unwonted  aspect  of  triumph 
and  brilliance  which  lends  originality  to  a  somewhat  hackneyed 
subject. 

Another  one  of  the  strange,  beautiful  pictures  by 
Mantegna,  is  his  Parnassus,  and  according  to  vari- 
ous authorities,  is  one  of  the  painter's  masterpieces. 
Jules  Guiffrey  says  of  it: 

One  of  the  purest  masterpieces  of  the  Italian  Renaissance  is 
Parnassus, — that  picture  where,  in  a  landscape  that  one  only 
sees  in  dreams,  the  nine  Muses,  in  light  tunics,  of  varied  and 
clinging  hue,  gaily  dance  and  sing  upon  the  grass  to  the  sounds 
of  the  lyre  with  which  Apollo  seated  on  the  left,  accompanies  his 
own  songs.  Pegasus  is  on  the  right,  and  Mercury  is  standing  near 
him;  while  in  the  middle  distance,  on  a  rock,  cut  out  in  the  form 
of  an  arch,  and  showing  in  the  distance  the  green  and  flowery 
declivities  of  Helicon,  Mars  and  Venus  are  revealed,  standing  in 
front  of  a  mass  of  orange  trees.  Near  them,  Cupid  annoys  with 
his  arrows  Vulcan,  who  appears,  furious,  at  the  entrance  of  a 
grotto  where  his  furnace  flames. 

Nowhere  else,  in  all  the  work  of  Mantegna,  does  woman  hold  so 
great  a  place  as  in  this  picture,  inspired  by  a  woman  as  attractive 
by  the  charms  of  her  beauty  as  by  the  cultivation  of  her  mind. 
These  Muses,  in  their  varied  attitudes  of  healthful  grace,  without 
affectation  or  archness,  reveal  memories  of  antique  sculpture;  and 
we  believe  that  we  can  see  the  inspiration,  or  the  copy  of  a  Greek 
marble,  in  the  beautiful  body  of  Venus,  who  is  the  one  nude  female 
preserved  to  us  in  all  the  works  painted  by  Mantegna. 

A  whole  host  of  phantoms  seem  to  hover  about 
the  beautiful  picture  of  Madame  Recamier,  but  one 
must  come  in  the  right  frame  of  mind  to  see  their 
filmy,  shadowy  outlines.  Perhaps  that  of  Chateau- 
briand is  strongest, — one  can  scarcely  think  of  one 
and  not  of  the  other.  It  is  not  the  face  of  the  ex- 
quisitely-posed woman  that  is  so  beautiful;  it  is  not 
the  beautiful  feet  which  have  been  left  bare;  it  is 
the — well,  something  intangible  that  draws  with  an 
attraction  that  holds  people   spellbound  before   it. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  197 

One  ponders  and  ponders,  trying  to  find  the  secret 
of  the  lure. 

There  was  one  painting,  in  a  room  close  by,  that 
fairly  hypnotized  me:  I  could  not  get  away  from  it. 
Time  and  time  again  I  felt  compelled  to  go  and  look 
at  it.  It  seems  to  me  the  very  incarnation  of  some 
sinister  evil,  but  I  never  found  out  just  what  the  pic- 
ture meant.  It  is  the  Youthful  Martyr,  by  Paul 
Delaroche.  Why  martyred,  and  who  did  it,  and  how 
was  it  done?     Perhaps  I  shall  never  know. 

This  painting  represents  a  beautiful  girl,  dressed 
in  a  white  robe,  floating  in  water  of  a  dark,  somber 
green,  the  face  alone  being  above  water.  Her  hands 
are  tied  together,  and  she  is  dead!  Dead!  Upon 
a  high,  steep  bank  above  the  river,  stand  a  man  and 
a  woman,  looking  with  strangely  quiet  eyes  down 
upon  the  floating,  dead  body  of  the  young  girl, — 
two  motionless  figures  against  the  somber  sky,  while 
the  dim  outlines  of  some  strange-looking  vessel  just 
dip  in  at  one  end  of  the  picture.  There  is  a  somber 
hue  over  the  whole  picture,  which  attracts  and  re- 
pels at  the  same  time.  Are  the  man  and  woman 
parties  to  the  deed  of  blood,  or  helpless,  sorrowing 
friends?  Again  I  ask:  Why  was  she  martyred,  and 
by  whom,  and  for  what  reason?  Was  she  one  of 
the  Christian  martyrs?  I  wanted  to  find  out,  and 
have  never  found  any  one  who  knows.  I  could  not 
get  away  from  that  painting,  but  I  have  never  heard 
it  mentioned  by  any  one  else. 

I  rather  like  these  lonely-looking  pictures,  such  as 
Le    Printemps   by    Rousseau.       What   a    far-away, 


198  PARIS 

lonely  place !  The  few  gaunt  trees  trailing  off  into 
a  far-distant  space  make  one  long  to  sit  down  and 
gaze  away  off  somewhere,  into  some  unknown 
sphere;  and  the  pale  water  offers  no  temptation  to 
those  who  like  to  go  wading, — it  is  too  lonesome 
looking. 

O,  Italy!  I  believe  I  like  the  Italian  pictures 
best  of  all.  What  beautiful  faces!  The  women 
given  to  the  world  by  Italian  painters  are  nearly  all 
beautiful. 

Perugino's  "Madonna,  Saints  and  Angels"  is  filled 
with  lovely  faces.  Here  is  the  beautiful  Virgin,  with 
little  soft  curls  falling  on  either  side  of  the  face,  and 
the  angels  in  the  golden  background,  really  angelic 
in  their  loveliness.  But  these  angel  faces  are  always 
the  faces  of  human  beings.  We  have  not  yet  been 
able  to  get  beyond  that,  with  all  our  splendid  repre- 
sentations. And,  too,  the  wings  that  sway  at  the 
shoulders  of  angelic  forms,  as  well  as  all  the  marks 
of  Monsieur  le  Devil  are  borrowed  from  the  animal 
kingdom.  Therefore,  despite  the  soarings  of  imagi- 
nation, we  have  not  been  able  to  pierce  the  unseen 
and  depict  it  upon  canvas.  No  supernatural  mes- 
senger has  yet  arrived  in  the  artist's  world,  or  he 
would  carry  some  sign  or  mark  to  show  that  he  was 
not  of  the  earth,  earthy.  No,  these  angels  are  all 
human  beings. 

Raphael  leaves  me  cold.  He  touches  me  in  no 
spot  whatsoever.  I  look  upon  the  good  fortune  to 
view  his  paintings  as  one  of  the  beautiful  opportuni- 
ties of  life ;  but  they  leave  me  without  the  least  desire 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  199 

to  look  behind  them,  to  peek  around  the  corners 
of  the  frames  to  see  if  there  is  not,  perhaps,  some 
way  of  getting  through,  into  the  beautiful  places  de- 
picted. 

Andrea  del  Sarto  has  the  opposite  effect  upon  my 
imagination.  His  colors  are  so  warm,  his  faces  all 
so  friendly  and  human,  that  one  has  a  feeling  of  un- 
derstanding, as  of  somebody  who  can  be  approached 
and  interrogated. 

Titian's  Entombment  is  one  of  those  great  paint- 
ings that  attract  by  its  contrasts, — the  contrast  of  the 
white  of  the  dead  body  with  the  white  of  the  linen 
sheet  wrapped  about  it;  the  contrast  of  the  frowning 
man  with  the  parted  hair  in  the  background  and  the 
gentle,  sympathetic  man  in  the  foreground,  who  is 
lifting  the  feet  of  the  dead  Saviour. 

So  it  is  with  the  Girl  at  Her  Toilet.  She  wears  an 
enigmatic  expression,  as  though  the  man  in  the  deep 
shadow  behind  her  had  said  something,  the  effect  of 
which  had  been  to  stay  her  hands  as  she  was  in  the 
act  of  pinning  up  her  hair;  in  another  instant,  she  will 
whirl  around  and  face  him  with  angry  eyes.  He 
had  better  have  a  care.    To  quote  : 

The  light  is  concentrated  with  unusual  force  upon  the  face  and 
bust  of  the  girl,  whilst  the  form  and  features  of  the  man  are  lost 
in  darkness.  We  pass  with  surprising  rapidity  from  the  most 
delicate  silvery  gradations  of  sunlit-flesh  and  drapery  to  the  mys- 
terious depths  of  an  almost  unfathomable  gloom,  and  we  stand 
before  a  modeled  balance  of  light  and  shade  that  recalls  Da 
Vinci,  entranced  by  a  chord  of  tonic  harmony  as  sweet  and  as 
thrilling  as  was  ever  struck  by  any  artist  of  the  Venetian  School. 

This  contrast  of  light  and  shade  is  as  pronounced 
in  all  of  Titian's  pictures  as  are  those  curious,  ass- 


200  PARIS 

thetic  eyes  in  the  pictures  of  Memling,  and  the 
strange  combinations  of  rich  dark  contrasting  col- 
ors in  the  Van  Eykes.  These  are  characteristics  that, 
to  my  vision,  are  apparent  in  the  works  of  each  one 
of  these  masters. 

The  beautiful  feature  of  the  Madonna  with  the 
Rabbit  is  the  exquisite  woman  in  the  foreground 
(with  pearls  in  her  hair,  which  are  entwined  about 
a  sort  of  bejeweled  bandeau)  holding  the  infant  in 
her  arms.  The  face  expresses  the  most  tender  affec- 
tion for  the  babe.  At  one  side,  the  Madonna  kneels 
on  the  ground,  clasping  a  tiny  white  rabbit  with  one 
hand,  while  she  seems  to  be  trying  to  turn  the  Infant's 
head  with  the  other,  so  that  he  may  see  bunny.  It  is 
very  beautiful  in  its  extreme  simplicity; — but,  the 
faces  are  all  human. 

How  the  people  come  and  go !  It  is  interesting  to 
note  the  different  pictures  that  seem  to  have  the  larg- 
est personal  popularity.  There  are  hundreds  of 
paintings  here  of  which  we  have  never  heard;  there 
are  dozens  of  which  all  have  heard;  and  these  great, 
popular,  well-known  works  are  the  first  ones  sought 
out.  Naturally  this  would  be  true:  they  were  the 
ones  that  I  searched  for  first;  I  wanted  to  see  those 
that  every  one  else  had  seen.  But  in  my  seeking  the 
famous  canvases  I  saw  hundreds  of  pictures  that 
were  just  as  lovely,  and  in  some  instances,  much  more 
so,  than  many  of  the  great  masterpieces.  It  is  in- 
teresting, too,  to  attach  oneself  to  a  group  and  listen 
to  the  comments.  One  learns  much  in  this  way,  and, 
in  addition,  it  is  an  entertaining  enterprise.    The  atti- 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  201 

tude  of  different  persons  toward  pictures  makes  an 
interesting  study. 

When  I  come  across  pictures  by  Dutch  artists,  I 
feel  as  one  meeting  some  old  friend  unexpectedly. 
That  is  how  I  felt  when  I  came  suddenly  upon  The 
Lacemaker  by  Jan  Vermeer  of  Delft.  She  looked 
just  like  the  little  roly-poly  woman  in  Rotterdam  who 
taught  me  how  to  make  lace.  As  the  woman  in  the 
picture  leans  over  her  bobbins  and  cushions,  intent 
upon  following  the  design  tacked  to  the  cushion,  so 
did  the  little  woman  lean  in  her  window  in  Rotter- 
dam when  my  attention  was  first  attracted  to  her, 
and  the  possibilities  of  lace-making  as  a  diversion. 
It  shows  that  times  have  not  changed  very  materially 
since  Jan's  day,  so  far  as  lace-making  is  concerned. 

When  I  was  in  the  Netherlands,  I  found  myself 
so  often  objecting  to  portraits,  of  which  there  is  such 
a  profuse  collection.  Now,  that  I  am  away,  and 
those  days  are  a  mere  dream,  I  find  that  when  I  meet 
one  of  these  Netherlandish  portraits  that  I  salute  it 
with  pleasure, — as  I  might  some  one  I  once  had 
known. 

Portraits,  in  certain  instances,  are  fascinating. 
One  stands  long  before  them,  wondering  and  think- 
ing. The  one  of  Rene  Descartes,  the  real  father  of 
modern  psychology,  by  Franz  Hals,  halts  the  at- 
tention, and  one  gazes  with  thoughtful  eyes  into 
those  strange,  slumberous  orbs  almost  half  covered 
by  the  heavy,  drooping  lids.  It  is  a  face  that  pleases. 
One  thinks  of  the  marvelous  intellect  that  glowed 
under  that  great  mass  of  curling  hair. 


202  PARIS 

Franz  Hals'  Bohemian  Girl  is  a  lovely  picture  of 
a  strongly-built,  sturdy  little  Dutch  girl,  with  a  curi- 
ous smile  on  her  little  fat,  round  face,  looking  out 
at  the  corners  of  her  eyes, — but  in  a  different  way 
from  Leonardo's  women.  This  is  the  Dutch  style 
of  stealing  glances  from  the  corners  of  the  eyes. 
Da  Vinci's  women  do  it  in  the  Italian  way. 

This  girl's  hair  falls  loosely  at  the  back  of  her 
head,  and  a  straggling  little  "bang"  falls  over  her 
forehead.  I  am  just  as  curious  about  what  she  is 
smiling  at  as  I  am  about  what  Mona  Lisa  is  smiling 
at;  this  little  Dutch  girl  has  also  an  "inscrutable" 
smile. 

Terburg's  La  Legon  de  Lecture  has  a  woman  in 
it  that  is  gifted  with  the  most  extraordinary  pug  nose 
imaginable, — it  turns  everlastingly  heavenward.  This 
is  undoubtedly  a  portrait,  and  that  she  is  from  Hol- 
land there  can  be  no  doubt,  judging  from  her  dress. 
The  child,  however,  is  a  beauty, — a  dear  little  curly- 
headed  thing,  trying  to  read  something  from  a  book 
as  big  as  the  family  Bible,  while  the  woman  looks 
off  into  space,  a  preoccupied  expression  upon  her 
face,  as  though  she  were  trying  to  count  the  pieces 
of  soap  necessary  for  the  laundry,  while  endeavoring 
to  "do  her  duty"  and  hear  the  child  say  its  lesson. 
Her  mind  is  far  away  from  the  child  and  its  lesson. 

Are  great  paintings  ever  supposed  to  be  humor- 
ous? The  Animals  Entering  the  Ark,  by  Fr.  Sny- 
ders,  strikes  me  as  "humorous,"  and  I  keep  won- 
dering if  he  really  meant  it? 

Here  are  twenty-two  great  paintings  by  the  prince- 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  203 

ly  Rembrandt,  but  I  enjoyed  the  work  of  this  Mas- 
ter more  in  his  own  country.  It  seems  to  me  that 
all  his  canvases  should  all  be  there  together.  It  was 
so  familiar  and  homelike  to  see  dear  old  Bathsheba 
still  at  her  eternal  bath.  She  was  bathing  in  every 
gallery  in  Holland  and  Belgium,  and  Rembrandt 
gives  her  a  bath  in  the  Louvre  as  well.  She  does 
not  convey  the  idea  that  she  is  really  taking  a  bath 
so  much  as  that  she  is  simply  posing  as  a  study  in 
the  nude.  Baedeker  says  that  it  is  an  "excellent 
though  realistic  female  study,"  and  the  word  "real- 
istic" describes  Bathsheba. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  extreme  elegance  of  the 
Vandyke  people  renders  them  just  a  little  cold  and 
supercilious.  A  curl  out  of  place,  a  lace  collar  just 
a  little  awry,  would  bring  them  down  at  once  from 
their  gilded  frames  to  protest. 

The  stately,  magnificently-gowned  woman  in  A 
Woman  and  Her  Child  seems  too  old  and  too  stately 
to  be  the  mother  of  the  little  girl  standing  at  her 
side,  dressed  like  a  little  grandmother,  her  dress 
a  reproduction  of  that  worn  by  the  mother.  She  is 
too  magnificent  in  her  stateliness  to  convey  the  idea 
of  a  mother.  This  woman  could  never  caress  a 
child, — not  with  that  wonderful  lace  collar  around 
her  stately  white  throat!  She  looks  an  empress, — 
surely  nothing  less.  No  other  less  mighty  station 
would  fit  her  magnificence. 

Vandyke's  portraits  of  the  great  and  mighty  are  all 
just  as  stately  and  magnificent. 

For  a  few  mornings  I  devoted  myself  entirely  to 


204  PARIS 

Corot.  His  painting  of  Le  Pont  de  Nantes  suggests 
such  wonderful  dreamlike  possibilities.  What 
strange-looking  little  houses  are  built  on  the  bridge 
that  spans  the  river !  I  wanted  so  much  to  come  close 
up  to  them,  to  cross  the  bridge,  and  see  what  the 
fronts  looked  like, — but  they  were  only  painted,  and 
I  could  never  get  any  closer  to  them,  or  peer  into 
those  imaginary  front  windows  facing  the  bridge. 
The  landscape  beyond  the  bridge  is  cut  off  short, 
as  it  were,  leaving  the  feeling  that  there  are  wonder- 
ful things  to  be  seen  just  beyond  the  line  of  vision; 
one  can  see,  dimly,  that  there  is  a  house  nestling 
on  the  misty  hill-side,  but  cannot  see  it  plainly  enough 
to  tell  anything  about  it.  Oh,  these  elusive  pic- 
tures! They  keep  one  guessing  and  wondering  all 
the  time!  Corot  himself  said:  "When  everything 
becomes  visible,  there  is  no  longer  anything."  Ah! 
so  he  means  to  mystify  us! 

Not  all  pictures  have  this  effect  upon  one, — only 
a  few  of  them.  Many  pictures  are  not  suggestive 
at  all.  They  tell  one  all  they  mean  to  tell  at  once, 
and  are  done  with  it.  There  are  other  pictures  that 
affect  one  as  Alice  was  affected  by  the  looking- 
glass; — one  wants  to  look  behind  them,  or  crawl 
straight  through  them,  and  go  wandering  on  and 
on,  through  the  miraculous  gates,  out  into  the  en- 
chanted land  beyond.  To  revert  to  The  Youthful 
Martyr,  that  man  and  woman  on  the  river  bank 
affect  me  in  that  very  way:  I  want  so  much  to  clam- 
ber up  that  river  bank  and  demand  of  them  whether 
they  killed  that  young  girl,  or  whether  they  know 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  205 

who  had  done  so  cruel  a  deed.  But  what  can  one  do 
with  painted  villains?  Oh,  perhaps,  they  were 
saints,  or  other  persecuted  ones?  I  do  not  know. 
All  I  know  is  that  the  beautiful  girl  is  dead  and  her 
body  is  floating  in  the  river. 

Corot  keeps  one  on  the  qui  vive  all  the  time.  In 
the  beautiful  La  Vallon  a  little  group  of  country 
women  and  a  child  stand  looking  away  off  at  some- 
thing. One  of  the  women  is  pointing  at  it,  whatever 
it  is,  and  I  am  filled  with  the  most  intense  curiosity. 
I,  too,  want  to  see  what  they  see.  But,  as  usual, 
it  is  just  beyond  the  grasp  of  vision.  I  have  no  idea 
of  what  they  are  so  intently  gazing  at,  and  feel  a 
sense  of  injustice  that  they  can  see  what  I  may  not 
see,  and,  alas!  never  shall  be  able  to  see.  But  that 
is  Corot.  He  keeps  one's  curiosity  ever  keyed  to 
concert  pitch. 

Greuze  is  a  great  favorite  with  most  people  be- 
cause of  his  beautiful  delineation  of  young,  girlish 
faces,  but  I  did  not  seem  to  get  all  the  pleasure 
from  their  contemplation  that  others  seemed  to  get. 
However,  one  cannot  say  that  they  are  not  beauti- 
ful, but  I  do  not  detect  any  great  mentality  in  those 
lovely  girlish  faces  that  smile  at  one  so  bewitch- 
ingly. 

Rubens  was  evidently  an  admirer  of  women  of 
imposing  size,  for  nearly  all  of  his  women  are  not 
only  "stout"  but  decidedly  fat.  Those  eighteen  or 
twenty  immense  paintings  of  scenes  from  the  life  of 
Marie  de  Medici  all  depict  fat  women,  many  of 
them  robed  in  pink,  but  this  fatness  does  not  seem 


206  PARIS 

to  detract  any  from  their  beauty  on  canvas.  The 
walls  of  one  immense  room  are  lined  with  these  ro- 
bust women;  they  seem  more  like  scenes  from  the 
lives  of  the  Olympian  gods  than  from  the  life  of  a 
real  personage. 

Marie  de  Medici  ordered  them,  I  believe,  for  the 
Luxembourg  Palace,  when  that  was  one  of  her  resi- 
dences, and  they  illustrate,  in  an  allegorical  way, 
her  marriage  with  Henry  IV,  being  said  to  form 
the  most  important  series  of  such  paintings  in  the 
world. 

The  Venus,  in  the  painting  Venus  and  Love,  is 
another  fat  woman,— enormous, — and  the  little 
Love  is  so  very,  very  thin  that  one  begins  to  wonder 
whether  there  was  a  double  meaning  intended.  How- 
ever, the  attitude  of  the  woman  is  so  sweet  and 
caressing  that  it  is  an  easy  matter  to  forgive  her 
the  extra  pounds. 

Mrs.  Harmon  was  copying  the  Immaculate  Con- 
ception, by  Murillo,  and  her  splint-bottomed  stool 
was  surrounded  most  of  the  time  by  people  standing 
about,  watching  each  stroke  of  her  brush,  till  I  won- 
dered how  she  could  possibly  do  her  work.  How- 
ever, she  did  not  seem  to  mind  it,  and  painted  away, 
day  after  day,  as  though  other  persons  did  not  exist 
for  her.  A  copyist  must  have  an  enormous  amount 
of  faith  in  his  ability,  or  it  would  not  be  possible  to 
do  his  work,  in  this  way,  under  the  public  gaze. 
When  Mrs.  Harmon's  picture  was  finished,  I  could 
not  tell  it  from  the  original.  I  suppose  an  artist 
might;  but,  to  the  uninitiated,  I  do  not  see  how  it 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  207 

would  be  possible.  It  was  all  there,  color  for  color, 
moon  for  moon, — all!  And — she  received  $1,500.00 
for  it.  Of  Murillo's  Immaculate  Conception,  Aime 
Giron  says: 

In  a  diaphanous  atmosphere,  gilded  with  an  invisible  clearness 
as  of  Paradise,  the  winged  heads  and  bodies  of  little  angels  are 
moving:  the  former  gracefully  grouped,  the  latter  boldly  and  skill- 
fully disposed. 

The  celestial  infants  have  followed  all  the  way  to  the  earth  the 
rays  of  celestial  light  in  its  elusive  gradations  of  color  under  its 
imperceptible  glazing. 

In  the  center,  in  the  act  of  ascent,  the  Virgin  rises  in  ecstasy. 
One  corner  of  a  cloud,  the  crescent  moon,  and  a  masterly  group 
of  little  angels,  naked  and  enraptured,  bear  the  Immaculate  aloft. 
Gracefully  and  statuesquely  posed,  and  broadly  draped  in  a  white 
robe  with  sober  folds  enriched  by  an  ample  scarf  of  light  blue, 
she  modestly  hides  her  feet  under  the  drapery  and  chastely  crosses 
her  hands  over  the  breast  in  which  she  feels  the  conception  of  the 
Son  of  God  operating.  Her  head  under  its  disheveled  waves  of 
black  hair,  a  little  turned  back  and  bending  slightly  to  one  side, 
is  raised  to  heaven  with  uplifted  eyes  and  open  mouth,  as  if  to 
receive  in  every  sense  the  flow  of  the  spirit.  The  face,  in  the 
exquisite  sweetness  of  a  surrender  to  piety,  reflects  the  bliss  of 
Faith,  of  mystical  voluptuousness,  and  divine  ecstasy.  The  expres- 
sion is  religious,  but  the  Virgin  is  human,  and  full  of  life  in  the 
firmness  of  her  lines  and  the  warmth  of  her  flesh-tints. 

Beneath  the  suppleness  of  the  drawing  and  the  soft  touches,  we 
recognize  in  Mary  the  Immaculate,  the  woman,  and  even  the 
Andalusian. 

Peace  Bringing  Plenty  by  Vigee  Le  Brun,  is  an- 
other marvel  of  soft,  sweet  beauty.  In  it  are  two 
women.  The  face  of  the  blonde  is  marvelously  beau- 
tiful, the  hair  entwined  with  roses  and  foliage;  while 
a  magnificent  woman  of  the  brunette  type  looks  down 
into  her  face,  one  arm  thrown  about  her  shoulders, 
seeming  to  lead  her  away  somewhere, — to  some  en- 
chanted land. 

The  ceilings  of  the  Louvre  form  a  picture  gallery 


208  PARIS 

by  themselves.  If  one  holds  a  small  hand-mirror, 
he  can  see  the  ceilings  without  lifting  the  head  at  all. 

Paintings  of  most  gorgeous  colorings  cover  all  the 
ceilings,  room  after  room,  and  the  copious  use  of 
gilding  gives  the  effect  of  frames  about  them.  These 
paintings  are  well  worth  looking  at,  as  many  of  them 
are  more  beautiful  than  the  pictures  that  line  the 
walls. 

We  used  to  go  to  the  Gallerie  d'Apollon  and  sit 
there,  on  a  settee,  and  examine  the  ceiling  pictures 
by  the  hour;  and  we  did  this  too,  in  the  Salon  Carre, 
the  magnificently-decorated  ceiling  of  which  was  ex- 
ecuted by  Simart. 

It  is  in  this  room  that  one  discovers  the  exquisite 
Betrothal  of  Saint  Catherine  of  Alexandria,  by  Cor- 
reggio.  "So  beautiful  are  the  faces,"  says  Vasari, 
"that  they  seem  to  have  been  painted  in  Paradise." 

After  looking  at  these  gold-background  paintings 
of  the  Italian  Masters,  everything  else  seems  tame. 
I  love  them,  even  though  these  masters  did  not  study 
anatomy  so  thoroughly  as  did  the  Dutch.  Person- 
ally, I  believe  I  would  rather  look  at  pictures  devoid 
of  all  anatomical  exactness  than  to  stumble  on  to 
another  such  display  as  I  saw  in  that  dreadful  room 
in  the  Rykes  Museum  filled  with,  as  Baedeker  says, 
"Anatomical  Subjects."  These  pictures  of  the  Ital- 
ians are  minus  the  horrors  I  encountered  in  that  gal- 
lery. 

There  is  here  a  charming  picture  of  an  Old  Lady 
Reading  Her  Bible,  by  Gerard  Dow,  which  Baedeker 
says  is  the  mother  of  Rembrandt.    My  attention  was 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  209 

attracted  to  the  painting  because  of  that  notation. 
She  was  a  beautiful  old  lady,  if  that  is  her  portrait, 
but  her  son  did  not  resemble  her  very  much. 

One  might  suppose  that  atmosphere  is  atmos- 
phere,— nothing  more.  But  if  one  looks  at  Claude 
Lorraine's  Harbor  at  Sunset  and  then  at  his  Harbor 
at  Sunrise,  he  will  be  surprised  to  see  what  a  differ- 
ence there  is, — what  a  difference  between  the  light 
of  evening  and  that  of  morning, — even  though  both 
canvases  have  the  same  grayish-pink  tints.  One 
might  be  able  to  tell  the  difference  even  if  the  name 
were  omitted  from  the  paintings. 

There  is  a  Hall  of  Portraits, — portraits  of  differ- 
ent artists, — which  I  found  interesting  for  the  reason 
that  I,  personally,  find  that  a  painting  means  more 
to  me  if  I  know  something  of  the  painter.  Thus, 
for  me  to  see  his  portrait,  and  be  able  to  form  some 
idea  of  how  he  appeared  in  life,  is  an  advantage, 
because  thereafter  I  enjoy  his  works  more  com- 
pletely. 

Here  is  Greuze;  Vernet,  the  painter  of  the  great 
battle-pieces;  Mme.  Le  Brun;  Coypel,  David,  Tin- 
toretto, Rosseau,  Soufffot,  the  architect;  a  bust  of 
David  by  Rude,  and  dozens  more. 

The  Gleaners,  by  Millet,  is  very  much  in  the  style 
of  his  wonderful  Angelus, — one  sees  always,  the 
hand  of  the  same  artist.  I  could  not  help  recalling 
how  we  stood  for  hours  in  long  lines,  in  Chicago, 
waiting  our  turn  to  get  in  and  see  the  Angelus  when 
it  was  exhibited  in  our  country  a  number  of  years 
ago.     Lines  of  people  stretched  for  two  blocks  be- 


210  PARIS 

yond  the  entrance,  all  patiently  waiting  for  an  op- 
portunity to  view  that  one  picture :  workingmen, 
workingwomen,  people  with  babies  in  arms,  and  lit- 
tle ones  held  by  the  hand, — all  waiting  their  turn  to 
enter. 

The  beautiful  Gallerie  d'Apollon, — ceiling,  wall, 
floor, — is  one  enormous  jewel.  On  the  walls  are 
twenty-five  or  thirty  portraits  of  the  French  Kings 
and  of  artists,  all  wrought  in  Gobelin  tapestry.  In 
the  middle  of  the  room  are  cases  filled  with  treas- 
ures worth  probably  several  million  dollars.  One 
feels  a  sense  of  surprise,  amounting  almost  to  amaze- 
ment, that  this  gallery  is  not  more  strongly  guarded 
than  it  is.  I  think  there  is  only  one  guardian  in 
the  whole  room, — not  more  than  two,  at  the  most. 

It  would  require  many  days  to  see  all  that  is  to 
be  seen  in  this  one  room,  and  the  more  one  sees  and 
studies  these  objects  the  more  he  is  filled  with  amaze- 
ment at  the  ingenuity  of  the  human  mind.  It  seems 
incredible  that  human  beings  could  ever  have  thought 
of  all  these  things,  and  thinking,  have  produced 
them. 

There  are  enameled  caskets,  enameled  gold  vases 
and  cups;  vessels  of  strange,  beautiful  designs,  made 
of  rock  crystal;  Venetian  basins;  silver-gilt  work  of 
various  kinds;  statuettes;  enameled  croziers  and  rel- 
iquaries; bejeweled  crosses  and  chalices;  Holy 
Water  basins  in  agate  and  silver-gilt;  Polish  and 
German  goblets  of  curious  workmanship;  mon- 
strances; cups  of  silver  and  gold,  carved  and  be- 
jeweled; a  great  dish  of  lapis-lazuli  in  the  form  of 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  211 

a  barge,  trimmed  with  gold  and  enamel;  bonbon 
dishes  and  trays;  ewers  set  with  diamonds  and  other 
precious  stones;  a  vrase  of  jasper  with  handles  to 
represent  dragons;  busts,  cameos  and  incense  hold- 
ers; a  tray  decorated  with  real  pearls  of  great  value; 
the  Regent,  a  136-carat  diamond  worth  two  or  three 
million  dollars;  rubies;  pearls;  it  would  be  a  day's 
work  just  to  enumerate  them  all. 

Besides  all  these  things,  there  are  the  beautiful 
tables  with  gilded  legs  completely  covered  with  carv- 
ings, and  marble  tops,  and  many  pieces  of  other  beau- 
tiful furniture  to  be  seen.  I  spent  weeks  in  trying 
to  form  some  idea  of  the  treasures  in  that  one  room, 
but  came  away  feeling  certain  that  there  were  many 
things  there  that  I  had  not  even  glimpsed, — did  not 
know  they  were  there, — had  never  heard  of  them. 
France  evidently  has  plenty  of  money — she  is  not 
at  all  poverty  stricken,  in  spite  of  her  many  revolu- 
tions. 

There  is  one  room  filled  with  objects  carved  in 
ivory.  Among  them  is  an  exquisite  Madonna,  which 
seems,  while  gazing  at  it,  more  beautiful  than  any 
of  those  upon  canvas.  But  I  cannot  be  sure  of 
this,  because  when  looking  at  the  painted  Virgins, 
one  almost  forgets  the  ivory  Virgin  and  vice  versa. 
Most  all  the  ivories  have  ecclesiastical  associations 
and  are  ascribed  by  different  authorities  to  French, 
German,  and  even  to  Oriental  workmanship.  Words 
convey  only  a  meager  impression  of  the  beauty  and 
the  curiosity  of  this  vast  collection  of  exquisite 
ivories, 


212  PARIS 

If  one  has  a  taste  for  old  furniture,  utensils,  cop- 
per and  brass,  the  opportunity  to  indulge  it  is  un- 
limited in  the  Louvre.  I  spent  days  just  prowling 
about.  There  are  not  so  many  visitors  in  this  por- 
tion of  the  vast  museum,  therefore  all  is  very  quiet 
and  one  can  do  as  he  likes. 

With  all  our  modern  inventions,  I  do  not  believe 
that  we  have  yet  introduced  any  designs  more  beau- 
tiful in  taste  and  elegance  than  those  to  be  seen  in 
the  old  furniture  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
centuries.  Such  exquisite  tables,  with  carved  and 
begilded  legs!  Beautiful  bedsteads  with  immense 
canopies  of  silk  and  velvets;  magnificent  bureaus, 
consols,  commodes,  cabinets,  and  so  forth.  One  may 
spend  days  among  these  beautiful  old  things  and 
never  tire  of  looking  at  them, — at  their  beautiful 
lines  and  graceful  proportions.  I  will  admit,  how- 
ever, that  I  prefer  our  modern  springs  and  hair  mat- 
tresses. 

All  of  these  things  speak  of  the  royal  personages 
who  once  used  them;  and  I  have  the  feeling  some- 
times, while  roaming  about,  that  their  former  oc- 
cupants come  back  and  watch  us  as  we  move  around 
among  their  old  furniture  and  art  treasures, — per- 
haps flit  about  and  are  amused  at  our  curiosity,  and 
look  at  us  as  we  comment  on  them,  and  perhaps  feel 
that  we  are  mere  shadows  flitting  here  and  there. 

One  does  not  gain  an  idea  of  the  home  life  of 
the  French  people  from  this  collection,  however,  as 
one  does  from  the  collections  of  furniture  and  house- 
hold utensils  in  the  Netherlands,  where  the  objects 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  213 

are  those  used  by  the  people  themselves,  and  not 
those  used  by  royalty  and  the  nobility.  The  Louvre 
collection  is,  above  all  things,  a  "Royal"  one. 

A  visit  to  the  Louvre  on  Sunday  is  different  from 
one  made  during  the  week.  There  is  a  different 
atmosphere.  On  Sunday  the  great  gallery  is  thrown 
open, — free  to  all  the  world.  It  is  then  crowded 
with  the  people  of  Paris  who  work  for  a  living  dur- 
ing the  other  six  days  of  the  week.  Workingmen 
come  by  the  score,  sometimes  with  four  or  five  young- 
sters besides  the  mother,  and  probably  some  of  the 
family  relations.  I  have  gone  numbers  of  times 
just  to  see  these  splendid  people,  and  to  quietly  en- 
joy the  impressions  I  received. 

I  was  always  interested  in  noticing  what,  in  par- 
ticular, seemed  to  appeal  to  them  most.  By  some 
sort  of  intuition,  divine  or  French,  they  never 
stopped  to  look  at  anything  except  the  very  best  that 
the  Gallery  had  to  offer.  I  noticed,  too,  that  land- 
scapes appealed  to  the  average  Frenchman  more  than 
did  any  other  form  of  painting. 

The  masses  in  Paris  could  not  fail  to  acquire  a 
certain  amount  of  culture,  when  all  this  magnificent 
array  of  art  is  spread  out,  free,  for  all  who  care  to 
contemplate  it.  These  French  workmen  and  their 
families  stroll  through  the  long  galleries,  talking  and 
gesticulating,  shrugging  shoulders  and  lifting  eye- 
brows, criticizing  and  discussing  with  the  assurance 
that  knowledge  alone  could  give.  As  I  watched 
them,  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  what  a  mighty 
force  for  good  is  an  art  gallery. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

SAINT  GERMAIN-L'AUXERROIS.    THE  GARDENS  OF  THE 
TUILERIES.    THE  GOBELIN  INDUSTRY 

Talking  about  pictures,  there  is  one  in  the  Hos- 
pice de  la  Salpetriere  (the  place  where  Manon  Les- 
cot  was  imprisoned),  which  ought  to  be  placed  with 
the  Lesson  in  Anatomy,  and  then  both  of  them  locked 
up  in  that  dissecting-room  at  Amsterdam,  or  some 
other  place,  out  of  sight  of  the  general  public.  This 
is  an  enormous  painting  by  Tony  Robert-Fleury, 
wherein  Dr.  Pinel  (the  beneficent  friend  of  the  in- 
sane) is  depicted  as  delivering  the  insane  from  tor- 
ture. It  gives  too  much  ground  for  horrible  con- 
jecture. If  the  insane  are  tortured,  it  is  dreadful 
to  think  of;  but  so  long  as  we  cannot  help  it,  what 
is  the  use  of  thinking  any  more  about  it  than  neces- 
sary? Still,  if  we  must  have  these  huge  paintings 
of  torture  and  anatomy,  an  insane  asylum  is  as  good 
a  place  for  them  as  elsewhere,  and  perhaps  better. 

Maybe  the  picture  has  accomplished  something, — 
brought  some  benefit  to  the  insane.  I  do  not  know, 
but  I  do  not  want  to  look  at  it  again. 

The  French  are  very  fond  of  placing  these  huge 
paintings  in  nearly  all  their  public  buildings, — some- 

214 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  215 

thing  that  bears  upon  the  subject  or  object  to  which 
the  building  is  devoted. 

In  the  Museum  of  the  Conservatory  of  Music,  is 
the  death-mask  of  Chopin,  and  in  the  Museum  of  the 
Medical  College,  there  is  a  large  collection  of  casts 
taken  from  the  heads  of  criminals — those  in  the  Jar- 
din  des  Plantes  are  taken  only  from  the  heads  of 
"celebrated"  criminals.  I  do  not  know  that  the 
heads  of  criminals  are  materially  different  from  the 
heads  of  the  righteous,  nor  do  I  care  especially  to 
look  at  them;  but  certain  it  is  that  their  contempla- 
tion will  furnish  food  for  thought. 

It  would  seem  almost  a  natural  proceeding  for 
one  to  visit  the  Church  of  Saint  Germain-l'Auxerrois 
in  conjunction  with  the  Louvre,  as  it  was  really  a  part 
of  it  in  the  days  gone  by,  having  once  been  the  Parish 
Church  of  the  Louvre.  Imagine  what  a  fine  sight 
it  must  have  been,  when  the  king  and  the  royal  fam- 
ily, with  its  retainers  and  servitors,  and  its  gor- 
geously-appareled ladies-in-waiting,  would  file  out 
of  the  door  of  the  Louvre  facing  the  church,  and 
come  in  to  hear  mass  on  Sunday  mornings. 

Of  the  enormous  palace  of  the  Tuileries,  of  which 
no  one  can  fail  to  think  when  looking  at  the  Louvre, 
not  one  stone  is  left  on  top  of  another, — nothing  is 
to  be  seen  but  the  vast  garden  which  now  covers  its 
site. 

The  gardens  are  exquisite  over  head,  the  green  of 
the  beautiful  trees  spreading  over  one  like  a  huge 
umbrella,  but — the  ground!  Poof!  it  is  all  gravel! 
One  must  walk  on  gravel, — the  grass  is  off  on  a  holi- 


n6  PARIS 

day,  and  what  little  there  is  is  denied  man,  as  a 
promenade.  However,  one  does  not  saunter  through 
the  Tuileries  Gardens  for  grass,  but  to  ponder  a  bit 
on  what  it  once  was,  on  its  historical  reminiscences. 

At  intervals,  through  the  tree-lined  spaces,  are  to 
be  seen  some  of  the  finest  of  modern  sculpture,  which, 
in  conjunction  with  the  green  of  the  trees,  and  the 
sparkling  of  the  fountains,  makes  one  of  the  finest 
parks  in  the  world — a  beautiful  picture,  pleasing  to 
the  eye,  so  long  as  one  can  forget  the  gravel. 

There  are  plenty  of  chairs  to  be  had,  and  one  may 
sit  and  think, — just  as  long  as  he  likes, — of  the  im- 
mense palace  that  is  said  to  have  brought  bad  luck 
to  every  one  of  its  inhabitants.     Read : 

Of  the  five  kings  to  which  the  Tuileries  gave  shelter, — not  count- 
ing the  Second  Empire, — only  one  went  straightway  to  the  tomb; 
one  went  to  the  scaffold,  and  three  others  to  exile.  .  .  .  With  the 
court  followers  and  the  nobility  of  the  last  days  of  the  monarchy 
it  was  the  same  thing;  the  Tuileries  was  but  a  temporary  shelter. 
The  scaffold  accounted  for  many,  and  banishment  engulfed  others 
to  forgetfulness.  It  was  a  commonplace  at  the  time  to  repeat  the 
warning:  "O !  Tuileries!  O!  Tuileries!  Mad  indeed  are  those 
who  enter  thy  walls,  for  like  Louis  XVI.,  Napoleon,  Charles  X., 
and  Louis  Philippe,  you  shall  make  your  exit  by  another  door!" 

A  letter  written  on  February  24th,  1848,  gives  an- 
other picture  of  the  ill-fortune  that  marked  the 
palace : 

Many  houses  have  been  entered  in  search  for  arms,  but  I  cannot 
hear  of  pillage,  except  at  the  Tuileries.  Here  all  the  furniture 
was  tossed  out  of  the  windows,  the  clothes  paraded  on  sticks,  the 
looking-glasses  smashed,  the  portraits  hacked  with  swords,  and  the 
carriages  burned.  The  same  scenes  took  place  at  the  Palais  Royal, 
which  was  set  on  fire. 

Report  says  the  Opera  was  set  on  fire.  All  the  Corps  de  Garde 
decidedly  are  there.  I  was  startled  by  hearing  two  shots  fired. 
.  .  .  Upwards    of    five    hundred    Municipal    Guards    have    been 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  217 

wounded.  ...  A  mob  with  lighted  torches  has  been  parading  the 
streets,  forcing  us  all  to  light  up  our  windows,  under  penalty  of 
seeing  them  broken. 

The  cannon  discharged  for  fun  by  the  people  kept  us  in  perpetual 
uncertainty  .  .  .  but  it  is  horrible  to  think  that  this  vast  City  is 
in  the  hands  of  an  armed  mob,  drunk  with  excitement  and  with 
wine  which  they  drank  from  the  barrels  in  the  royal  cellar.  .  .  . 

The  shops  are  half  open,  and  the  itinerant  venders  of  apples, 
potatoes,  etc.,  are  plying  as  usual.  .  .  .  There  is  hardly  a  tree  left 
on  the  Boulevards,  the  Champs  Elysees  are  devastated,  the  Palais 
Royal  much  injured  by  fire,  the  Tuileries  gutted,  the  streets  pulled 
up. 

O,  Paris!  One  can  sit  here  under  your  trees, 
watching  the  children  at  their  games,  and  think  of 
many  things. 

I  went  to  see  where  the  wonderful  Gobelin  tapestry 
is  made,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  being  able  to  say 
that  I  had  been  there,  but  I  had  not  been  in  the  place 
long  before  I  began  to  be  glad  that  I  had  come :  it 
proved  to  be  intensely  interesting.  I  had  never  cared 
especially  for  tapestry,  but  afterwards,  I  had  a  new 
feeling  for  it, — that  wonderful  fabric  for  kings. 

The  building  looks  as  though  it  might  be  forty  or 
fifty  years  old,  but  when  one  is  told  that  this  tapestry 
industry  has  been  housed  here  for  something  over 
three  hundred  years,  it  begins  to  seem  like  a  long 
time  that  it  has  been  standing  here — to  an  American, 
at  least.  The  building  looks  so  bright  and  cheerful, 
with  jars  and  boxes  of  blooming  flowers  in  the  win- 
dows, that  three  hundred  years  seems  an  incredible 
age. 

Each  workman  must  be  an  artist — no  mere  artisan 
is  employed  for  none  such  could  meet  the  require- 
ments. 


218  PARIS 

We  spent  a  long  time  there,  watching  them  weave 
the  tapestry.  The  loom  is  hung  up  toward  the  wall, 
the  warp  stretched  over  the  frame,  the  wrong  side 
turned  toward  the  operator.  He  sits  before  it, 
weaving  the  beautiful  colors  back  and  forth,  while 
a  mirror  placed  at  one  side,  at  a  certain  angle,  en- 
ables him  to  see  just  what  he  is  doing.  At  the  other 
side  is  the  picture  that  he  is  copying,  which  will  not 
be  seen  until  the  whole  is  finished.  A  workman  must 
be  an  artist:  he  could  not  copy  a  painting  unless  he 
were. 

I  understand  there  are  about  14,000  tones,  em- 
bracing every  known  color  or  combination  of  colors, 
used  in  this  work.  I  had  no  idea  that  there  could  be 
such  a  number  of  shades  and  colors  and  tones  in  the 
world. 

One  operator,  who  was  especially  nice  to  us,  took 
a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  explain  to  us  how  it  was 
all  done,  and  to  show  us  some  pieces  of  very  beau- 
tiful work  that  were  already  finished.  It  takes  such 
a  long  time  to  complete  one  piece  of  work  that  it  is 
not  strange  that  it  has  not  become  more  common. 
However,  "the  work  now  done  at  the  looms  is  not 
sold,  but  is  reserved  for  State  presents,  and  for  the 
furnishing  of  palaces,  etc.  It  consists  for  the  most 
part  of  copies  of  famous  pictures,  wrought  in  wool 
by  a  handwork  process  demanding  infinite  skill  and 
patience." 

In  times  long  gone  by,  the  Gobelin  was  a  great 
establishment  wherein  were  manufactured  many 
things  other  than  tapestry.     For  example : 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  219 

Here  were  manufactured  the  splendid  services  of  plate,  of  costly 
inlaid  cabinets,  of  carven  frames,  and  of  gilded  couches.  Here 
also  were  produced  the  storied  hangings,  with  which  the  old  hotel 
is  identified;  but  the  looms  were  never  more  merrily  active  than 
when  the  Sculptor's  mallet  and  the  hammer  of  the  Smith  were  re- 
sounding under  the  same  roof;  when  the  Weaver  wove  his  costly 
web  to  the  tune  of  the  Lapidary's  file;  whilst  the  saw  and  chisel 
made  constant  chorus  in  his  ears. 

But  there  is  nothing  now  to  remind  us  of  all  this 
bygone  bustle  and  activity;  we  may  only  reconstruct 
it  through  the  eyes  of  others.  A  Sunday  air  broods 
over  the  place  now,  and  everything  is  quiet  and  ex- 
tremely orderly. 

After  that  visit  I  went  again  to  the  Louvre,  to 
look  at  the  tapestry,  and  at  those  wonderful  crimson 
velvet  curtains  trimmed  with  bands  of  tapestry.  I 
had  a  new  understanding,  therefore  a  new  apprecia- 
tion, of  this  department  of  the  art  world. 

There  are  also  some  splendid  tapestries  at  the 
Musee  Galliera, — five  tapestries  representing  Ger- 
vasius  and  Protasius, — which  show  forth  the  his- 
tory of  these  saints.  It  depicts  their  scourging,  their 
execution,  the  removal  of  their  relics,  their  appear- 
ance to  Saint  Ambrose,  and  the  discovery  of  their 
relics.     It  is  all  there,  plain  as  print. 

Then  there  are  about  a  dozen  or  so  other  tapes- 
tries (Gobelin)  copied  from  great  paintings,  repre- 
senting the  months. 

Here  is  also  to  be  seen  the  largest  collection  of 
crystal  vases  and  various  kinds  of  glass  ware  that 
I  saw  anywhere  in  Paris, — or  anywhere,  in  fact. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

CHURCH    OF    THE    SACRED    HEART.       BUTTES-CHAU- 
MONT.       MONTMARTRE.       PERE-LACHAISE 

Paris  has  an  "Angels'  Flight."  I  had  supposed 
the  only  one  in  the  world  was  in  Los  Angeles,  away 
out  in  California;  but  here  was  Paris,  rivaling  us, 
with  her  little  inclined-way,  up  to  the  Heights  of 
Montmartre,  a  trip  we  took  one  brilliant  afternoon 
to  reach  that  wondrous,  mosquelike  Church  of  the 
Sacred  Heart. 

One  can  see  it,  perched  up  there  on  its  eerie,  all 
white  and  gleaming,  from  nearly  every  point  in  Paris. 
It  is  the  most  dreamlike  of  anything  in  the  whole 
City,  standing  there  on  the  Hill  of  Martyrs,  midway 
between  the  sites  of  two  pagan  temples  of  long 
ago, — a  mixture  of  mysticism  and  art.  Its  appeal 
to  the  imagination  is  stronger  from  a  distance,  as 
it  is  still  unfinished,  and  upon  coming  close  to  it, 
it  loses  much  that  appeals  to  one  from  afar. 

It  is  a  magnificent  building,  with  its  dome  260 
feet  high,  and  its  clock  tower  390  feet,  shooting  up 
into  the  blue  of  the  sky  above  it. 

In  the  light  of  a  brilliant  moon  its  gleaming  white- 
ness seems  to  shine  with  a  silvery  phosphorescence: 

220 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  221 

another  Taj  Mahal  by  moonlight,  a  Christian  Basil- 
ica by  daylight! 

There  are  little  stalls  built  all  about  the  church 
grounds,  wherein  are  kept  for  sale  all  kinds  of  re- 
ligious ornaments — gayly-colored  cards  bearing  pic- 
tures of  the  Virgin  and  of  the  various  saints;  tiny 
shrines  and  cribs;  images  made  of  metal;  crucifixes 
made  of  some  kind  of  brown  beads,  the  figure  of  the 
Christ  made  of  some  kind  of  white  material;  rosaries 
also  made  of  brown  beads,  but  of  a  larger  size, — 
all  sorts  of  similar  things. 

I  purchased  something  of  every  blessed  thing  for 
sale, — and  then  lost  them  all  in  a  fire  afterwards: 
Virgins,  Saints,  Images, — all  went  up  in  smoke ! 

We  formed  a  party  one  evening,  and  went  to  the 
big  gardenlike  park  called  "Buttes-Chaumont,"  just 
to  obtain  that  splendid  view  of  the  Sacre-Coeur  by 
moonlight.  It  isn't  exactly  the  size  of  the  church,  it 
isn't  exactly  the  shape  of  the  church,  nor  is  it  ex- 
actly the  position  of  the  church,  that  accounts  for 
the  extraordinary  beauty  and  snowy  radiance  that 
seems  to  emanate  from  every  angle  of  the  building 
in  the  moonlight.  Perhaps  it  is  a  combination  of 
all,  with  a  little  imagination  thrown  in, — this  great 
white  harmony  in  stone. 

Standing  in  front  of  the  church  and  looking  off 
over  the  city,  one  has  a  view  that  could  not  be  sur- 
passed (much  more  sensible,  to  my  mind,  than  climb- 
ing all  those  horrible  steps  to  the  towers  of  Notre 
Dame)  ;  and  all  without  the  least  fatigue. 

Out  of  a  rolling  sea  of  dull,  somber,  gray  houses, 


222  PARIS 

rise  gilded  domes  and  towers,  like  sun-gilded  icebergs 
in  a  gray  ocean.  Away  off,  the  gilded  domes  of  the 
beautiful  Russian  Church,  of  the  Invalides,  of  the 
Pantheon,  the  Tour  Saint-Jacques,  the  spires  of 
Sainte  Clotilde.  It  is  beyond  words  to  paint  the  pic- 
ture. Nor  is  the  picture  always  the  same;  the  view 
changes  with  the  weather.  Sometimes  it  is  gray  and 
dull,  covered  with  gray  mist;  then,  at  other  times 
it  is  brilliant  with  the  golden  hues  of  the  sunshine. 

On  the  way  up,  it  was  so  steep  that,  in  one  place, 
I  insisted  upon  jumping  out, — I  could  not  find  it  in 
my  heart  to  impose  upon  the  poor  old  razor-backed 
horse, — but  the  coachman  laughed  at  me. 

The  streets  are  all  of  cobble-stones  up  here, — not 
of  wood,  as  in  the  Champs  Elysees, — and  there  are 
narrow-shouldered,  slant-eyed  old  houses  tucked 
away  back  in  shallow  old  streets  that  I  would  not 
trust  in  the  dark.  I  am  told  that  there  are  fearful 
places  in  Montmartre;  but  of  this  I  have  no  knowl- 
edge. I  only  know  that  we  turned  sharp  corners, 
and  penetrated  very  narrow  slits  and  passage-ways, 
and  followed  some  very  devious  windings;  but  of 
any  lurking  evil  I  was  utterly  unconscious,  and  found 
the  Quarter  extremely  interesting,  and,  in  places,  pic- 
turesque. But  my  companions  said  that  I  must  not 
wander  about  alone  in  this  locality. 

The  Cemetery  of  Montmartre  is  filled  with  the 
remains  of  those  who  have  helped  to  make  Paris 
what  it  is  to-day, — "A  beacon  light  of  intelligence 
held  out  to  all  the  world."  Here  lies  Emile  Zola; 
Theophile  Gautier;  Halevy  the  composer;  Henner 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  223 

the  painter;  Paul  Delaroche,  who  painted  the  pic- 
ture that  hypnotized  me,  and  whom  I  cannot  now  in- 
terrogate; Berlioz  the  composer;  Greuze,  the  painter 
of  sweet  girlish  faces;  Ary  Scheffer;  the  beloved 
Heinrich  Heine,  with  his  face  carved  in  stone  above 
his  grave.  Heine  was  very  much  beloved  by  the 
Empress  of  Austria,  and  it  seems  that  just  before 
her  death,  as  a  last  tribute  to  this,  her  favorite  poet, 
she  ordered  this  bust  to  be  placed  on  his  grave. 

It  is  a  wonderful  "City  of  the  Dead."  One  in- 
stinctively feels  that  he  should  walk  with  gentle  tread 
and  speak  softly.    Those  wonderful  men! 

It  was  just  a  little  weird;  but  I  sometimes  imagined 
that  I  could  very  distinctly  sense  that  subtle  current 
of  thought  and  sentiment  created  and  loosed  into 
space  by  the  minds  of  the  great  men  whose  bodies 
were  lying  here, — the  scientists,  the  poets,  the  philos- 
ophers, and  the  musicians  and  composers.  Their  in- 
fluence lives  on  and  on,  while  that  of  ordinary  mor- 
tals seems  to  be  quite  dead.  These  men  are  not 
dead, — only  resting  here  for  a  time. 

Here  is  also  a  small,  modest  grave,  which  is  said 
to  be  the  grave  of  the  real  Dame  aux  Camellias.  It 
is  always  decorated  with  flowers,  and  I  was  told  by 
a  French  lady  in  Paris  that  it  is  the  descendants  of 
Dumas  that  keep  the  grave  covered  with  the  beau- 
tiful flowers.  But  who  knows  if  this  be  true?  It  is 
a  pretty  thought,  anyway,  and  we  will  believe  the 
story, — so  long  as  we  remain  in  Paris. 

I  stood  long  beside  the  last  resting-place  of  Theo- 


224  PARIS 

phile  Gautier,  the  wonderful  poet-man  who  said,  in 
his  "Romance  of  a  Mummy": 

The  poet  and  the  musician  know  all  things;  the  gods  reveal 
secrets  to  them,  and  they  express  in  their  rhythms  that  which  the 
thought  scarcely  grasps,  and  which  the  tongue  is  powerless  to  utter. 

On  many  of  the  graves  were  great  wreaths  of 
flowers  and  foliage  made  of  colored  glass  beads, 
hung  up  in  company  with  bunches  and  garlands  of 
real  flowers.  I  marveled  at  them.  They  are  not  so 
pretty;  but  perhaps  compensation  is  to  be  sought  on 
the  ground  of  their  durability. 

I  went  to  the  great  cemetery  of  Pere-Lachaise  for 
the  sole  purpose  of  looking  upon  the  last  resting- 
place  of  Rachel,  of  Alfred  de  Musset  (one  of  my 
own  personal  gods),  and  the  tomb  of  the  ill-starred 
lovers,  Abelard  and  Helo'ise.  But  upon  arriving  at 
the  monumental  city  of  the  dead,  with  its  long, 
cypress-bordered  avenues  radiating  in  many  direc- 
tions, I  was  confronted  by  the  tombs  of  an  un- 
dreamed-of number  of  the  immortals:  Rossini 
(whose  body  is  now  in  Florence),  Alfred  de  Musset, 
Paul  Baudry;  Felix  Faure,  Auber;  Rachel,  Rosa 
Bonheur;  Raspail;  Chopin,  Cherubini;  Gretry, 
Thiers;  Daubigny,  Corot;  Moliere  (or,  at  least,  his 
supposed  remains)  ;  Alphonse  Daudet;  Hahnemann, 
the  founder  of  homeopathy;  Balzac;  Michelet,  the 
historian;  and  so  on.  What  wonderful  inhabitants 
contains  this  silent  city! 

They  say  a  path  has  been  worn  to  the  graves  of 
the  renowned  lovers,  Abelard  and  HeloTse,  by  tens 
of  thousands  of  other  sad-hearted  lovers.     There 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  225 

they  lie,  side  by  side,  their  carved  faces  turned  ever- 
lastingly to  the  canopy  above  them,  and  sympathy 
for  their  ill-starred  love  is  still  strong  in  all  hearts. 
The  story  of  their  love  is  a  peculiar  one,  to  my  mind, 
and  I  have  never  felt  that  Abelard  did  quite  the 
right  thing  by  Heloise.  Thus  runs  the  romance,  as 
told  by  T.  Okey,  in  writing  of  William  of  Cham- 
peaux: 

"The  fame  of  the  teacher  drew  multitudes  of 
young  men  from  the  provinces  to  Paris  among  whom 
there  came,  about  1100,  Peter  Abelard,  scion  of  a 
noble  family  of  Nantes. 

"By  his  wit,  erudition  and  dialectical  subtlety  he 
soon  eclipsed  his  master's  fame  and  was  appointed 
to  a  chair  of  philosophy  in  the  school  of  Notre 
Dame. 

"William  of  Champeaux,  jealous  of  his  young 
rival,  compassed  his  dismissal,  and  after  teaching  for 
a  while  at  Melun,  Abelard  returned  to  Paris  and 
opened  a  school  on  Mont  Saint  Genevieve,  whither 
crowds  of  students  followed  him.  So  great  was  the 
fame  of  this  brilliant  lecturer  and  daring  thinker 
that  his  school  was  filled  with  eager  listeners  from 
;all  countries  of  Europe,  even  from  Rome  herself. 

"Abelard  was  proud  and  ambitious,  and  the  high- 
est prizes  of  an  ecclesiastical  and  scholastic  career 
seemed  within  his  grasp. 

"But  Fulbert,  canon  of  Notre  Dame,  had  a  niece, 
accomplished  and  passing  fair,  Heloise  by  name,  who 
was  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  the  great  teacher. 


226  PARIS 

"It  was  proposed  that  Abelard  should  enter  the 
canon's  house  as  her  tutor,  and  Fulbert's  avarice 
made  the  proposition  an  acceptable  one.  Abelard, 
like  Arnault  Daniel,  was  a  good  craftsman  in  his 
mother  tongue,  a  facile  master  of  versi  d'amore, 
which  he  would  sing  with  a  voice  wondrously  sweet 
and  supple. 

"Now  Abelard  was  thirty-eight  years  of  age: 
Heloise  seventeen.  'Love  is  quickly  caught  in  gentle 
heart,'  and  Minerva  was  not  the  only  goddess  who 
presided  over  their  meetings. 

"For  a  time  Fulbert  was  blind,  but  scandal  cleared 
his  eyes,  and  Abelard  was  expelled  from  the  house. 
Heloise  followed  and  took  refuge  with  her  lover's 
sister  in  Brittany,  where  a  child,  Astrolabe,  was  born. 
Peacemakers  soon  intervened  and  a  secret  marriage 
was  arranged,  which  took  place  early  one  morning 
at  Paris,  Fulbert  being  present. 

"But  the  lovers  continued  to  meet;  scandal  was 
again  busy,  and  Fulbert  published  the  marriage. 
Heloise,  that  the  master's  advancement  in  the  church 
might  not  be  marred,  gave  the  lie  to  her  uncle  and 
fled  to  the  nuns  of  Argenteuil.  Fulbert  now  plotted 
a  dastardly  revenge. 

"By  his  orders,  Abelard  was  surprised  in  his  bed, 
and  the  mutilation  which,  according  to  Eusebius, 
Origen  performed  on  himself,  was  violently  inflicted 
on  the  great  teacher. 

"All  ecclesiastical  preferment  was  thus  rendered 
canonically  impossible.  Abelard  became  the  talk  of 
Paris,  and  in  bitter  humiliation  retired  to  the  Abbey 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  227 

of  St.  Denis.  Before  he  made  his  vows,  however, 
he  required  of  Heloise  that  she  should  take  the  veil. 
The  heartbroken  creature  reproached  him  for  his 
disloyalty,  and  repeating  the  lines  which  Lucan  puts 
into  the  mouth  of  Cornelia  weeping  for  Pompey's 
death,  burst  into  tears  and  consented  to  take  the 
veil.   .   .   . 

"The  great  master,  although  forbidden  to  open  a 
school  at  St.  Denis,  was  importuned  by  crowds  of 
young  men  not  to  let  his  talents  waste,  and  soon  a 
country  house  near  by  was  filled  with  so  great  a  com- 
pany of  scholars  that  food  could  not  be  found  for 
them. 

"But  enemies  were  vigilant  and  relentless,  and  he 
had  shocked  the  timid  by  doubting  the  truth  of  the 
legend  that  Dionysius  the  Areopagite  had  come  to 
France. 

"In  1 1 24  certain  of  Abelard's  writings  on  the 
Trinity  were  condemned  and  he  took  refuge  at  No- 
gent-sur-Seine.  .  .  .  He  retired  to  a  hermitage  of 
thatch  and  reeds,  the  famous  Paraclete,  but  even 
there  students  flocked  to  him,  and  young  nobles  were 
glad  to  live  on  coarse  bread  and  lie  on  straw,  that 
they  might  taste  of  wisdom,  the  bread  of  the  angels. 

"Again  his  enemies  set  upon  him.  He  surrendered 
the  Paraclete  to  Heloise  and  a  small  sisterhood,  and 
accepted  the  abbotship  of  St.  Gildes  in  his  own  Brit- 
tany. 

"A  decade  passed,  and  again  he  was  seen  in  Paris. 
His  enemies  now  determined  to  silence  him.  St. 
Bernard,  the  dictator  of  Christendom,  denounced  his 


228  PARIS 

writings.  Abelard  appealed  for  a  hearing,  and  the 
two  champions  met  in  St.  Stephen's  Church  at  Sens 
before  the  king,  the  hierarchy  and  a  brilliant  and 
expectant  audience. 

"Abelard,  the  ever-victorious  knight-errant  of  dis- 
putation, stood  forth,  eager  for  the  fray,  but  St. 
Bernard  simply  rose  and  read  out  seventeen  proposi- 
tions from  his  opponent's  works,  which  he  declared 
to  be  heretical.  Abelard  in  disgust  left  the  lists,  and 
was  condemned  unheard  to  perpetual  silence.  The 
Pope,  to  whom  he  appealed,  confirmed  the  sentence, 
and  the  weary  soldier  of  the  mind,  old  and  heart- 
broken, retired  to  Cluny. 

"He  gave  up  the  struggle,  was  reconciled  to  his 
opponents,  and  died  absolved  by  the  Pope  near 
Chalons  in  1142.  His  ashes  were  sent  to  Heloise, 
and  twenty  years  later  she  was  laid  beside  him  at  the 
Paraclete." 

The  remains  of  the  lovers  were  brought  to  Paris 
in  1 8 17  and  placed  where  we  may  go  and  offer  our 
sighs,  along  with  the  thousands  of  others  who  have 
also  sighed  over  their  unhappy  love  and  maddening 
fate. 

One  may  also  go  and  look  at  the  spot  whereon 
stood  the  cruel  canon's  house,  at  No.  10  Rue  Chano- 
inesse,  a  small  street  on  the  He  de  la  Cite,  not  far 
from  Notre  Dame;  and  Quai  aux  Fleurs,  No.  9,  tells 
where  stood  the  house  of  the  lovers, — not  very  far 
from  the  Morgue. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  229 

In  writing  of  these  same  ill-starred  lovers,  Hilaire 
Belloc  says: 

He  stands  at  the  beginning  of  the  intellectual  life  of  Europe, 
with  the  troubled,  deep,  fiery  eyes  that  frightened  the  community 
at  St.  Denis,  looking  down  history  as  he  looked  down  from  the 
Paraclete,  like  a  master  silencing  his  fellows  ...  he  is  also  the 
type  of  all  the  great  revolutionaries  that  have  come  up  the  pro- 
vincial roads  for  these  six  centuries,  to  burn  out  their  lives  in 
Paris,  and  to  inlay  with  the  history  of  the  City.  I  can  never  pass 
through  the  narrow  streets  at  the  north  of  Notre  Dame  without 
remembering  him.  He  taught  in  the  Close  and  disputed  there;  he 
met  St.  Bernard  in  the  cloister;  he  was  master  of  the  early  schools; 
he  first  led  a  crowd  of  students  to  the  Hill  of  St.  Genevieve  and 
though  the  secession  returned  from  it  at  that  time,  he  may  justly  be 
appealed  to  as  the  founder  of  the  University  on  the  slope  beyond 
the  river. 

The  14th  century,  that  gloried  in  St.  Thomas  and  that  knew 
the  colleges,  was  ungrateful  not  to  remember  the  death  of  this 
man,  whom  Peter  the  Venerable  sheltered  and  absolved  in  the 
awful  shadow  of  Cluny.  For  all  these  reasons  it  is  a  good  thing 
that  the  romantic  spirit  of  the  early  19th  century  brought  him  and 
Heloise  to  lie  in   the  same  grave   at  Pere   la   Chaise. 

To  those  who  see  with  an  interior  sense,  a  ramble 
through  these  quiet  cemeteries  will  be  filled  with 
shadowy  reflections.  A  new  knowledge,  a  new  feel- 
ing will  be  gained  by  a  visit  to  these  last  resting  places 
of  the  great  ones  of  the  earth, — some  of  the  great- 
est souls  of  France. 

I  do  not  believe  that  it  is  an  exaggeration  to  say 
the  French  people  show  all  the  public  recognition  and 
appreciation  of  its  famous  sons  that  a  people  could 
show,  as  a  people.  France,  as  a  nation,  may  kill 
some  of  them  off,  but,  as  a  people,  she  will  never 
fail  to  perpetuate  their  memories  in  stone,  bronze, 
or  marble. 

The  respect  shown  to  the  dead  in  France  is  very 


230  PARIS 

touching.  Every  hat  is  lifted  in  the  presence  of  a 
funeral  car.  People  stop  and  cross  themselves,  and 
murmur  a  little  prayer  for  the  departed  soul, — a 
"God  have  mercy  on  their  soul," — so  that  the  pas- 
sage from  home,  or  church,  to  the  cemetery  is  along 
a  highway  literally  lined  with  prayers  and  parting 
good  wishes. 

One  thing  depressing  about  death  in  France  is 
the  habit  of  dressing  young  children  in  the  habili- 
ments of  mourning.  It  is  horrible  to  be  strolling 
along,  and  come  suddenly  face  to  face  with  a  mother 
and  perhaps  several  small  children,  all  dressed  in 
the  deepest,  most  somber  black,  the  little  girls'  frocks 
trimmed  with  crepe,  black  ribbons  on  their  hair, 
crepe-trimmed  hats  (of  very  stylish  mode,  of 
course),  and  black  gloves  on  their  little  hands.  I 
have  seen  little  children,  not  over  seven  or  eight 
years  of  age,  dressed  in  this  fashion. 

For  a  real  revel  in  the  mournful,  the  sorrowful, — 
something  that  makes  one  weep  without  knowing  ex- 
actly why, — let  me  recommend  a  little  ramble 
through  the  quiet,  tucked-away  cemetery  of  Picpus, 
near  the  Place  de  la  Nation,  on  the  lonely  road  to 
Vincennes. 

I  do  not  know  why,  but  it  seems  so  lonely  and  sad. 
Whether  it  is  because,  in  one  part  of  the  cemetery, 
there  are  the  headless  bodies  of  over  a  thousand 
persons  who  perished  during  that  part  of  the  Revolu- 
tion called  the  "Reign  of  Terror," — those  who  were 
beheaded  at  the  Barriere  du  Trone  in  1794, — 
whether  it  is  because  this  is  the  last  resting  place  of 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  231 

so  many  of  the  old  families  (such  as  the  Gramonts, 
the  Montmorencys,  the  De  Noalles,  and  others  who 
helped  to  make  French  history,  as  well  as  our  own 
good  old  friend,  Lafayette),  or,  perhaps,  the  work- 
ings of  the  invisible,  the  influence  of  the  thoughts 
of  anguish  and  horror  that  these  poor  headless  ones 
must  have  loosed  into  space  when  they  were  so 
cruelly  separated  from  their  bodies  at  that  awful 
time. 

As  an  American,  I  experienced  a  mournful  pleas- 
ure in  contemplating  this  last  resting-place  of  the 
magnificent  Frenchman  who  had  proven  such  a  good 
friend  to  the  revolutionaries  in  our  own  land.  Grace 
to  the  dead! 

We  come  first,  to  the  convent  church  of  the  nuns 
of  Sacre-Cceur,  which  is  surrounded  by  a  quiet,  se- 
cluded garden.  Passing  through  that,  we  come  to 
the  little  cemetery,  in  all  of  its  loneliness.  After 
contemplating  the  graves  and  remembering  that 
dreadful  time  when  these  bodies  were  placed  here, 
it  is  interesting  to  turn  to  fiction  for  a  change  of 
sentiment,  and  remember  that  it  was  over  the  walls 
of  this  convent  garden  that  Jean  Valjean  leaped  with 
Cosette,  when  he  was  being  so  desperately  pursued 
by  the  police.     As  Victor  Hugo  tells  us : 

"Valjean  mentally  measured  the  wall  above  which 
rattled  the  linden.  It  was  eighteen  feet  high.  .  .  . 
The  wall  was  capped  with  a  plain  coping  stone  not 
leveled  off.  The  difficulty  was  Cosette.  She  could 
not  scale  a  wall  if  he  were  able.     But,  he  did  not 


232  PARIS 

dream  of  abandoning  her.  Yet  to  carry  her  was  im- 
possible. All  the  man's  strength  was  needed  to  lift 
him  in  that  ascension.  .  .  .  He  lacked  a  rope. 
.  .  .  All  extreme  conditions  have  their  lightening 
flashes  to  dazzle  or  enlighten.  Valjean's  desperate 
glance  lighted  on  the  lamps  in  Genrot  Lane ;  it  was 
the  old  oil-lamp,  suspended  across  the  way,  and  had 
a  rope  coming  down  into  the  box,  for  the  convenience 
of  the  lamplighter  to  lower  it  for  trimming  and  filling 
and  to  hoist  it  up  again.  With  the  energy  found  for 
a  mighty  struggle,  Valjean  crossed  the  street  at  a 
bound,  entered  the  alley,  burst  the  catch  of  the  little 
box  with  the  point  of  his  claspknife,  and  in  another 
instant  returned  to  his  young  companion,  carrying 
the  rope. 

"Meanwhile,  the  time,  the  place,  the  darkness,  to- 
gether with  her  protector's  odd  movements  to  and 
fro  began  to  disquiet  Cosette.  Any  other  child  would 
have  set  up  bawling  long  ago.  She  contented  her- 
self with  tugging  at  his  coat  skirt  while  they  heard 
the  tramp  of  the  patrol  approaching  nearer  and 
nearer. 

"  'I  am  afraid,  father,'  she  whispered.  'What  is 
that  coming?' 

"'Hush!  It  is  Mother  Thenardier!'  answered 
the  unhappy  man.     She  shivered. 

"Without  haste,  but  not  having  to  go  over  the 
work  a  second  time,  with  steady,  sharp  precision, 
the  more  notable  as  Javert  and  his  force  might  ar- 
rive at  any  moment,  he  took  off  his  cravat,  made  a 
loop  of  it  around  Cosette's  body  under  the  armpits 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  233 

with  care  that  it  should  not  hurt  her,  made  this  fast 
to  one  end  of  the  rope  with  a  seaman's  knot  that 
would  hold  and  yet  could  be  quickly  undone  at  need, 
and  took  the  other  end  between  his  teeth.  He  pulled 
off  his  shoes  and  stockings  which  he  tossed  in  a  bundle 
over  the  wall  and  stood  upon  the  iron  guard.  Thence 
he  'shinned'  and  elbowed  himself  up  the  angle  with 
as  much  certainty  and  steadiness  as  though  he  had 
ladder  rungs  under  his  feet  and  in  his  grip.  Half  a 
minute  had  not  flitted  until  he  was  on  the  wall  sum- 
mit, on  his  knees. 

"Cosette  watched  him  in  a  stupor,  without  a 
word.  .  .  .  Suddenly  she  heard  his  voice  in  a  low 
tone : 

'Come,  set  your  back  to  the  wall.'  .  .  .  She 
felt  herself  drawn  up  off  the  ground,  but  before  she 
had  time  clearly  to  understand  what  was  happening, 
she  was  on  the  wall.  .  .  .  Valjean  could  only  see  the 
ground  beneath  at  a  good  depth.  He  had  reached 
the  incline  of  the  roof,  but  not  let  go  his  hold  of  the 
wall  crest,  when  a  violent  scuffling  of  feet  announced 
the  arrival  of  the  soldiers  and  police.  Javert's  for- 
midable voice  was  heard,  shouting: 

'Rummage  the  blind  alley!  ...  I  warrant  that 
he  is  in  the  alley!' 

"Valjean  slid  down  the  outhouse  roof,  while  sus- 
taining Cosette,  reached  the  tree  and  leaped  to  the 
ground.   .   .   .   Cosette  had  not  breathed  a  sound. 

'The  fugitives  stood  in  a  large  garden  of  odd  ap- 
pearance; one  of  those  dreary  enclosures  seemingly 
made  to  be  looked  on  in  winter  or  by  night.     Its 


234  PARIS 

form  was  oblong;  an  avenue  of  wall  poplars  was  at 
the  end;  in  corners  the  shrubs  were  rather  high,  and 
in  the  central  opening  could  be  distinguished  an  iso- 
lated tree  of  some  size;  the  other  trees  were  of  fruit, 
but  untrimmed  and  the  branches  crossing  like  large 
bushes  .  .  .  stone  seats  here  and  there  seemed  black 
with  moss.  The  walks  were  edged  by  straight  little 
evergreens  of  dark  foliage.  Grass  had  sprung  up 
over  half  the  paths  and  moss  greenly  carpeted  the 
rest.  .  .  .  The  back  of  the  enclosure  was  lost  in  fog 
and  night.  .  .  .  Nothing  more  wild  and  lonesome 
than  this  garden  could  be  imagined. 

"There  was  no  one  about,  which  was  explainable 
by  the  hour;  but  it  did  not  seem  the  place  for  a  ram- 
ble even  at  high  noon.   .   .   . 

"The  tumultuous  uproar  was  heard  of  the  patrol 
searching  the  alley  and  the  streets,  the  bangs  of  the 
musket-butts  on  the  stones,  the  clash  of  bayonets 
probing  holes,  Javert's  appeals  to  the  police  he  had 
posted.   .   .  . 

"In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  this  storm  seemed  blown 
over,  but  Valjean  dared  not  breathe  freely.  .  .  . 
For  that  matter,  the  loneliness  was  so  oddly  calm, 
that  this  dreadful  riot,  though  furious  and  so  near, 
did  not  cast  the  shadow  of  troubling  into  it.  The 
walls  seemed  built  of  stones  that  are  deaf,  told  of  in 
Holy  Writ. 

"All  of  a  sudden,  amid  this  profound  calm,  a 
fresh  sound  arose;  celestial,  unutterable,  it  was  as 
delightful  as  the  other  was  horrible.  It  was  a  hymn 
issuing  out  of  the  shade,  harmonious  prayer  in  the 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  235 

night's  dread  silence;  female  voices,  but  composed  of 
the  maiden's  pure  tone  and  children's  simple  accent, 
not  of  this  earth — such  as  children  still  hear  and  the 
aged  begin  to  hear  again.  It  came  from  the  dark- 
ened building.  As  the  demon's  clamor  faded  away," 
this  seemed  a  choir  of  angels  coming  up  through  the 
shadows. 

"Cosette  and  the  man  fell  on  their  knees.  They 
did  not  know  what  it  was  or  where  they  were.  .  .  . 
The  voices  were  the  more  strange  as  they  did  not 
seem  to  contravert  the  impression  that  the  building 
was  untenanted.  It  was  like  a  ghostly  song  in  a 
haunted  mansion.  The  music  was  extinguished — 
nothing  in  the  garden  as  nothing  in  the  street.  .  .  . 
The  wind  rustling  a  few  dry  leaves  on  the  garden 
wall  made  a  soft  hissing  of  mournful  tone.  Poor 
Cosette  did  not  speak.  .  .  .  The  good  man  took  6ff 
his  overcoat  to  wrap  her  with  it.  .  .  .  Leaving  the 
ruin,  he  skirted  the  building  wall  to  seek  a  better 
place.  All  the  doors  he  met  were  fastened  and  all 
the  windows  were  barred. 

"On  passing  the  inside  angle,  he  noticed  that  the 
windows  were  arched  and  showed  some  inner  light. 
Rising  on  tip-toe  he  peered  within.  All  the  windows 
belonged  to  a  vast  hall,  paved  with  broad  flags,  pil- 
lars forming  arcades,  with  a  little  light,  and  masses 
of  shadow.  The  light  came  from  a  night  lamp  in 
the  corner.  The  hall  seemed  untenanted  and  nothing 
stirred. 

"But  by  dint  of  staring,  he  believed  he  beheld  on 
the  floor,  something  which  appeared  clad  in  a  shroud, 


236  PARIS 

with  a  human  shape.  It  was  stretched  flat  on  its 
breast.  With  the  face  on  the  stone  slab,  the  arms 
thrown  out  like  a  cross,  its  stillness  was  of  death. 

.  .  .  The  whole  was  bathed  in  that  gloom  which 
enhances  the  horror  of  feebly  lighted  rooms. 

"Though  many  a  dread  sight  had  passed  his  eyes, 
Valjean  had  never  witnessed  a  thing  so  weird  and 
freezing  as  this  perplexing  form,  accomplishing  none 
knew  what  mysterious  act  in  that  somber  spot,  and 
seen  in  the  dead  of  night.  .  .  .  The  time  seemed 
long  before  there  was  a  movement,  and  he  suddenly 
felt  overcome  by  inexpressible  fright,  and  fled.  He 
ran  towards  the  shed  without  daring  to  turn  round. 

.  .  .  Where  was  he?  Who  would  ever  believe 
such  a  sepulcher  in  Paris?  What  was  this  appalling 
house?  .  .  .  Was  it  indeed  a  house  on  the  street, 
with  its  regular  number?  Was  it  not  a  dream?  He 
had  need  to  finger  its  stones  to  convince  himself! 

"However,  through  the  moody  fit  in  which  he 
sank,  he  had  heard  a  singular  sound  in  the  gar- 
den ...  it  was  such  a  musical  tinkling  as  the  cow- 
bells make  of  a  summer  night  when  kine  are  grazing. 
It  made  Valjean  turn  around.  He  looked  out  and 
saw  that  some  one  was  in  the  garden.  A  being  like 
a  man  was  walking  about  among  the  glass  bells  over 
the  melons.  .  .  .  He  feared  that  Javert  and  his 
posse  had  perhaps  not  gone,  but  had  left  sentries 
on  the  lookout  ...  so  he  softly  took  up  Cosette  in 
his  arms,  as  she  slumbered,  and  carried  her  into  the 
remotest  nook  in  this  lumber-house,  behind  a  stack 
of  disused  furniture.     From  here  he  observed  the 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  237 

movements  of  the  man  in  the  melon  beds.  It  was 
odd  that  the  tinkle  of  the  bell  accompanied  all  his 
attitude.  .  .  .  Why  should  a  man  be  belled  like  a 
ram  or  a  herd-mother? 

"He  made  straight  for  the  man  with  the  bell. 
...  In  his  hand  he  had  taken  out  the  roll  of  coin 
from  his  waistcoat  pocket.  .  .  .  He  accosted  him 
with  the  cry :    'A  hundred  francs  for  you !' 

"The  man  sprang  up  to  an  erect  position  and  lifted 
his  eyes. 

"  'A  hundred  francs  to  be  earned,'  resumed  Val- 
jean,  'if  you  give  me  shelter  for  the  night.' 

"The  moon  fully  lighted  up  his  frightened  face. 

"'Gad!  it  is  you,  Father  Madeleine!'  said  the 
man.  .  .  .  'Goodness  of  God!  How  came  you  here, 
Mayor  Madeleine?  .  .  .  However  did  you  get  in 
here?' 

11  'Who  are  you?  And  what  kind  of  a  house  is 
that?'  asked  Valjean. 

"  'Well,  this  is  a  good  joke!'  said  the  other;  'I  am 
the  man  whom  you  placed  here,  and  this  is  the  house 
you  placed  me  in!     Do  you  not  recognize  me?' 

"  'No.     How  am  I  to  recognize  you?' 

"  'Because  you  once  saved  my  life,'  was  the  re- 
ply. 

"Valjean  started  with  surprise.  'Why,  you  are 
Fauchelevent,'  said  he.   .   .   . 

"  'What  is  this  bell  at  your  knees?' 

"  'That  is  what  they  call  a  frightful  warning, — 
so  that  they  can  shun  me.  .  .  .  Why,  d'ye  see,  there 
is  a  lot  of  ladies  up  at  the  house.   ...   It  appears 


<(  (' 


238  PARIS 

that  a  man  is  a  dangerous  creature  to  meet,  so  the 
tinkler  warns  them  off.  When  I  come  along,  they 
make  off.' 

"  'What  is  that  house?' 
"  'Why,  hang  it!  you  know  very  well!' 
"  'But   I   do  not.   .   .   .  Answer  me   as  though   I 
knew  nothing  about  it.' 

'Then,  it  is  the  Picpus  Nunnery.'   .   .  . 
'The  Picpus  Nunnery,  eh?'  he  repeated  to  him- 
self." 

The  foregoing  brilliant  description  of  Picpus 
Cemetery  by  Victor  Hugo,  in  "Les  Miserables,"  will 
give  one  an  idea  of  the  loneliness  of  the  place,  even 
though  the  sun  might  be  brightly  shining.  Lafayette 
seems  so  much  as  though  he  belonged  to  America 
that  it  is  difficult  to  realize  that  he  was  not  an  Ameri- 
can but  a  Frenchman.  One  realizes  it,  however, 
when  he  sees  the  lonely  tomb  here  in  Picpus.  It  is 
said  that  his  coffin  was  lowered  down  into  earth 
which  had  been  brought  from  America.  May  he 
rest  well ! 

No  matter  where  one  turns,  there  is  always  some- 
thing to  recall  that  most  mournful  of  all  French 
Revolutions.  Here,  in  this  one  spot,  lie  the  poor, 
mutilated  bodies  of  over  a  thousand  persons.  One 
hesitates  to  think  of  how  many  there  are  in  other 
places. 

It  would  seem  to  me  that  the  increased  horrors  of 
this  Revolution  were  due  more  to  the  burning  resent- 
ment that  surged  through  the  hearts  of  the  people, — 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  239 

the  common  people, — at  that  special  time,  than  to 
any  other  cause.  Resentment  against  the  great  wealth 
of  the  few;  resentment  against  royalty;  resentment 
against  anything  and  everything, — one  sees  always 
the  signs  of  a  ferocious  resentment.  A  noted  French 
author  has  said: 

Has  an  investigating  magistrate  the  right  to  make  use  of  his 
exceptional  power  in  dealing  with  a  prisoner,  so  long  as  he  har- 
bors the  least  resentment  against  him?  This  might  well  apply  to 
a  Nation  as  well.  But  if  a  nation  waited  until  no  resentment  was 
harbored,  there  would  in  all  probability  be  no  revolution.  Re- 
sentment in  sufficient  quantity,  and  we  have  a  revolution.  Some 
one  else  has  said,  had  there  been  no  queen  there  would  have  been 
no  revolution. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A  SUNDAY  JAUNT  IN  THE  ENVIRONS.    AN  OLD-WORLD 

INN.     MALMAISON 

When  one  mounts  to  a  seat  upon  the  roof  of  a 
train  (a  fast  moving  train,  at  that)  he  will  find  con- 
ditions quite  different  from  those  on  the  "hurricane 
deck"  of  a  steam-tram  or  an  omnibus.  In  Paris  they 
have  double-decked  trains  as  well  as  trams. 

One  Sunday  morning  I  started  out  for  a  day's 
jaunt  with  "the  family," — bent  on  one  of  those  out- 
ings of  which  the  French  are  so  fond.  Upon  arriv- 
ing at  the  station  and  discovering  these  aerial  seats, 
I  at  once  suggested  taking  our  positions  up  there.  I 
was  remonstrated  with,  and  told  that  they  would  be 
very  drafty  and  uncomfortable,  but  I  insisted  upon 
mounting  in  spite  of  all  that  could  be  said  to  dissuade 
me. 

The  result  was  disastrous.  The  wind  whistled  and 
rattled  around  us,  and  went  straight  through  us  as 
though  we  had  been  cardboard;  the  cinders  from  the 
engine  rained  a  perfect  hailstorm  of  blackness,  and 
we  crossed  the  bridge  over  the  Seine  with  a  rattle 
and  roar. 

However,  we  had  a  "view"  whenever  it  was  pos- 
sible for  us  to  open  our  eyes  wide  enough  to  see  it. 

240 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  241 

We  passed  through  a  tunnel  that  almost  suffocated 
us.  Tunnels  are  unpleasant  enough  when  one  is 
seated  comfortably  in  a  first-class  compartment;  but 
up  on  top !  On  the  outside  of  a  fast-moving  train ! 
It  must  be  experienced  before  one  can  appreciate  it. 
Of  course,  these  double-decked  trains  do  not  make 
long  runs — only  short  distances  from  the  city.  These 
dear,  delightful  people  knew  just  exactly  how  un- 
comfortable we  should  all  be,  and  yet  they  submitted 
to  my  caprice  with  so  little  demur.  I  experienced 
an  extremely  guilty  feeling,  but  I  had  not  had  any 
idea  of  how  it  would  be. 

The  environs  of  Paris  are  extremely  beautiful  in 
certain  directions.  We  traveled  through  a  sweet, 
green,  quiet  country,  forests,  villas,  villages  and  hills, 
alternating  so  quickly  in  their  seeming  flight,  that  it 
seemed  scarcely  any  time  until  we  had  arrived  at 
quaint,  lovely  Louveciennes, — a  small  village  out 
some  twelve  or  fifteen  miles  from  Paris. 

A  quiet,  deep,  Sabbath  stillness  seemed  brooding 
over  the  whole  landscape,  and  just  as  we  saw  the  last 
of  the  two-storied  train  swing  around  a  curve,  the 
bells  from  the  tower  of  the  ancient-looking  13th  cen- 
tury church  began  to  peal. 

O  bells !  bells  !  I  believe  men  and  women  are  bet- 
ter men  and  women  when  listening  to  the  sound  of 
bells.  They  are  a  real  moral  influence, — when  musi- 
cal. 

Many  other  groups  got  off  where  we  did,  and  we 
could  see  them  scattering  about,  in  different  direc- 
tions. 


242  PARIS 

We  started  at  once  for  our  walk  (I  think  it  must 
have  covered  hundreds  of  miles, — at  least,  I  felt 
as  though  it  had).  There  are  many  lovely  villas  in 
this  locality,  set  back  in  beautiful  gardens  surrounded 
with  sun-mellowed  old  stone  walls,  over  which  were 
clinging  vines  in  the  greatest  profusion. 

Sometimes  we  would  walk  for  a  long  distance  be- 
tween rows  of  these  gray  walls,  unable  to  see  any- 
thing except  straight  in  front,  or  behind  us,  as  the 
walls  would  be  too  high  to  permit  us  to  peep  over. 
Of  course,  that  is  delightful  for  those  on  the  inside, 
but  rather  dull  for  those  outside,  in  the  dusty  road, 
who  have  to  trudge  along  between  rows  of  high  gray 
walls. 

Over  the  walls,  great  rows  of  tall  trees  would 
sometimes  offer  shade  to  the  pedestrian,  and,  once  in 
a  while,  we  could  glimpse  a  beautiful  garden,  or  a 
fountain,  through  some  gateway  that  had  been  left 
open. 

From  time  to  time  we  would  meet  parties  of  strol- 
lers doing  the  same  thing  as  ourselves, — peeping  in 
wherever  we  would  find  an  opportunity.  If  environ- 
ment is  anything,  these  must  be  very  happy  people 
who  live  in  these  beautiful  country  places. 

We  walked  and  walked,  Monsieur  Francois  in- 
terested in  everything  we  saw.  My  attention  was 
again  attracted  to  what  a  little  it  requires  to  render 
the  French  people  extremely  happy.  He  would  see 
a  leaf  on  an  old  stone  wall,  for  instance;  he  would 
pick  it  up  and  look  at  it,  turning  it  over  and  over, 
his  wife  and  his  mother-in-law  as  interested  as  was 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  243 

he,  and  they  would  talk  about  that  leaf,  or  flower, 
or  insect,  or  whatever  it  was,  for  an  hour.  Each 
thing  encountered  was  interesting, — nothing  seemed 
to  them  dull  or  tame,  and  they  were  apparently  al- 
ways so  interested  in  hearing  what  I,  their  guest, 
might  have  to  say  about  it.  Upon  the  whole,  I  felt 
that  I  had  indeed  been  fortunate  to  have  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  these  delightful  people.  For  some  un- 
accountable reason,  they  liked  me,  and  out  of  a 
large  number  of  persons, — very  bright,  intelligent 
persons, — in  the  pension,  Mrs.  Harmon  and  I  were 
the  only  ones  ever  asked  to  join  them  in  these  out- 
ings. 

What  a  charming  part  of  France  lies  outside  of 
Paris!     Miles  of  it! 

At  noon,  we  found  ourselves  at  a  real  old-world 
inn,  with  a  square,  walled-in  garden,  besprinkled  with 
beds  of  flowers  and  graveled  walks,  while  over  the 
gray  old  walls  were  tossed,  with  no  scant  profusion, 
those  lovely  clinging  vines  so  common  in  France. 
Several  fine  old  trees  were  here  in  this  lovely  garden, 
casting  their  cool,  green  shadows  over  the  snowy 
cloths  of  the  tables  spread  so  invitingly  under  them. 
Could  anything  be  lovelier? 

We  sat  there  for  a  very  long  time  over  the  de- 
licious luncheon  that  was  served  to  us,  and  talked 
just  a  little — lively  conversation  was  not  necessary, 
as  we  had  that  feeling  for  one  another  that  permitted 
silence  when  we  wished.  We  laid  our  hats  off  and 
cast  them  to  one  side,  and  Monsieur  Francais  smoked 
and  smoked. 


244  PARIS 

Quite  a  number  of  people  came  in,  generally  in 
small  parties.  Everything  was  so  quiet  that  we  could 
hear  the  birds  singing  a  block  away,  and  the  hum  of 
the  bees  in  the  flowers  all  around  us. 

Later  on  we  resumed  our  saunterings,  and  I  do 
not  know  how  far  we  walked;  but  after  wandering 
through  seemingly  endless  woods,  through  miles  of 
walls,  and  climbing  numbers  of  hills,  we  came  to 
Bougival, — another  pretty  little  village  filled  with 
stately  villas  and  a  lovely  old  church  with  a  tall  bell- 
tower. 

But  of  all  this,  I  saw  not  so  much  as  I  might  other- 
wise have  seen — I  was  thinking  of  the  Widow 
Larouge.  I  saw  her  in  every  turn  of  the  road,  and 
I  said  to  Monsieur  Francois: 

"This  is  where  the  Widow  Larouge  was  mur- 
dered, was  it  not?" 

"No,  no,  my  girl!"  he  answered;  "here  was  the 
police  station.  She  lived  in  La  Jonchere ;  here,  look  ! 
This  little  path  leads  to  the  village  yonder, — that  is 
La  Jonchere." 

How  these  characters  of  fiction  seem  to  live. 
Madame  and  Monsieur  Frangais  then  talked  of  a 
number  of  these  characters  of  romance  as  though 
they  had  been  real  personages.  I  could  never  think 
of  Bougival  without  at  the  same  time  thinking  of 
the  Widow  Larouge.  How  clever  the  murderer  was  ! 
He  got  off  the  train  at  Rueil  and  walked  over  to 
Bougival,  then  on  down  this  very  same,  winding  road, 
to  La  Jonchere. 

Just  beyond  La  Jonchere  is  Malmaison, — another 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  245 

spot  filled  with  a  pathetic,  sentimental  interest.  It 
was  the  home  of  Josephine  after  she  was  divorced 
from  Napoleon.  It  is  a  country  in  which  to  write 
romance,  undoubtedly. 

Here  we  sat  down,  under  the  shade  of  the  trees, 
and  rested  for  a  long  while.  It  seemed  incredible 
that  we  were  so  near  Paris.  This  was  quite  another 
world.  Automobiles  went  flashing  by  with  a  roar; 
carriages  by  the  hundred;  pedestrians,  too;  every- 
body seemed  to  be  out  in  the  search  for  pleasure. 

After  a  while,  we  started  on  again,  and  soon  came 
to  Marly-le-Roi,  once  the  home  of  royalty;  but,  as 
I  had  never  known  royalty,  I  was  more  interested  to 
see  the  home  of  Victorien  Sardou,  than  to  see  the 
"spot"  whereon  had  once  stood  the  Chateau  of 
Louis  XIV,  which  was  destroyed,  along  with  all  the 
rest  of  it,  in  1793. 

It  would  not,  perhaps,  be  just  to  say  that  the  liter- 
ary man  does  not  receive  his  reward  in  these  modern 
times.  The  home  of  the  great  dramatist  would  not 
bear  out  that  conclusion, — a  splendid  place,  the  Villa 
Montmorency,  crowning  the  summit  of  a  small  hill, 
guarded  by  a  number  of  large  sphinxes  of  pinkish 
stone,  which  keep  their  mysterious  eyes  turned  ever- 
lastingly to  inspect  all  who  may  wend  their  steps  that 
way.  Who  knows?  Perhaps  these  creatures  of  mys- 
tery are  the  ones  who  tell  that  great  man  such  won- 
derful things  !  All  those  strange  things  that  sphinxes 
are  supposed  to  know. 

The  town  is  filled  with  beautiful  villas  and  gardens 
and  trees.     Often  we  peeped  through  great  black 


246  PARIS 

iron  gates  set  in  gray-stone  walls,  into  lovely  old 
gardens, — at  strange-looking  old  houses,  and  thick 
rustling  trees;  but  we  seldom  saw  a  human  being. 
All  seemed  as  if  deserted.  But  off  in  the  distance, 
in  all  directions,  could  be  heard  the  honk-honk!  of 
automobiles  and  the  tooting  of  horns :  the  past  and 
the  present  all  mixed  up  together. 

By  this  time  I  was,  as  we  say  in  America,  "All  in." 
We,  therefore,  sat  down  to  rest  beneath  the  shadows 
of  the  great  trees  and,  if  the  truth  is  to  be  told,  I 
must  acknowledge  that  I  laid  my  head  down  in  the 
grass  and  went  fast  asleep.  I  must  have  slept  an 
hour,  at  least,  and  my  companions  were  too  kind  to 
disturb  me,  although  the  evening  was  fast  coming 
on.  Tired?  It  was  the  longest  jaunt  of  which  I  had 
ever  been  guilty. 

From  Marly-le-Roi  we  took  the  train  for  home, 
but  I  was  almost  too  fatigued  to  notice  what  we 
passed  on  the  way.  Monsieur  Francois  laughed  at 
me, — said  it  had  been  only  a  few  miles'  jaunt,  that 
even  "Maman"  was  not  tired;  but  I  insisted  that  it 
had  been  hundreds.  But,  as  Monsieur  Francois  had 
said,  the  little  mother-in-law  was  not  the  least  bit 
tired, — and  she  was  nearly  half  a  century  older 
than  I ! 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

VERSAILLES 

One  day  my  American  friends  invited  me  to  ac- 
company them  on  a  visit  to  Versailles.  We  met  at 
the  Tuileries  Gardens,  and  from  there,  went  to  the 
Gare  des  Invalides,  where  we  took  the  electric  tram. 

It  was  only  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour's 
journey,  and  then  we  found  ourselves  in  the  Place 
d'Armes  that  stands  before  this  vast  visualized  rec- 
ord of  French  history, — a  record  more  graphic  than 
would  be  possible  by  any  stroke  of  pen  or  brush. 

I  looked  up  at  it  in  amazement,  but  my  first  feeling 
was  one  of  disappointment  at  its  not  being  even 
greater,  in  view  of  the  figures  that  represented  its 
cost.  Perhaps  if  it  had  been  standing  up  on  end, 
instead  of  being  spread  out  over  such  a  vast  terri- 
tory, I  might  have  been  enabled  to  appreciate  its  size 
more  thoroughly,  as  an  American  has  a  keener  ap- 
preciation and  understanding  of  tall  buildings, — 
"sky-scrapers," — than  he  has  of  those  that  lay  low 
and  spread  out  over  acres  of  ground.  I  will  admit 
that  after  I  tried  to  "go  through  it,"  walk  over 
its  acres  and  acres  of  floor  space,  and  catch  a  glimpse 
of  its  vast  gardens,  I  formed  different  ideas  as  to 
its  size.     My  first  impression,  however,  was  one  of 

247 


248  PARIS 

disappointment,  because  it  didn't  obscure  the  whole 
heaven. 

It  would  be  an  utter  impossibility  to  "do"  Ver- 
sailles in  a  single  day.  Many  days  would  be  neces- 
sary to  enable  one  to  catch  even  a  fleeting  glimpse  of 
its  vast  domain.  And  this  was  only  one  of  many 
visits  which  we  made  to  this  charming,  quiet,  ghost- 
haunted  palace. 

Versailles  fills  such  an  immense  space  in  the  his- 
tory of  France  that  to  neglect  to  visit  it  is  to  neglect 
the  opportunity  to  gain  some  understanding  of  the 
many  facts  and  conditions  that  led  to  her  political  as 
well  as  to  her  artistic  preeminence  during  the  reign  of 
Louis  XIV,  and  to  and  including  the  reign  of  Louis 
XVI.  For  after  the  disappearance  of  the  monarchy 
the  history  of  Versailles  seemed  to  lose  its  attrac- 
tion both  politically  and  artistically,  although  at  the 
present  time  the  artist  is  beginning  to  come  back  to 
his  own,  and  no  matter  where  one  turns,  he  sees  the 
artist  with  his  palette  and  easel.  One  day  I  saw  a 
whole  company  of  young  girls  at  work,  sketching  a 
certain  part  of  the  palace,  under  the  guidance  of  a 
professor  or  instructor. 

On  my  first  visit,  we  stood  there  and  gaped  at 
the  monster  palace  for  a  long  time  before  we  finally 
entered,  to  find  that  the  interior  of  this  vast  group 
of  buildings,  designated  by  the  name  of  Palace  or 
Chateau,  seems  to  be  even  greater  than  the  exterior 
would  lead  one  to  suppose.  We  walked,  and  walked, 
and  walked,  seemingly  for  miles,  through  vast  apart- 
ments, through  endless  halls  and  corridors  and  pas- 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  249 

sages,  up  and  down  stairways,  through  the  great 
ghost-haunted  spaces  of  Versailles! 

It  is  such  a  deserted,  lonely-looking  place.  A 
habitation  for  ten  thousand  persons,  and  not  a  soul 
in  it  except  the  guardians.  A  stately,  solemn  silence 
pervades  all  these  unoccupied  apartments  of  the  long- 
since  departed, — a  silence  that  strikes  a  chill  to  the 
heart,  and  one  keeps  thinking  all  the  time  of  those 
who  once  dwelled  in  these  beautiful  rooms,  where  the 
sense  of  a  great  human  past  is  still  strongly  felt. 
Every  once  in  a  while  I  could  catch  myself  listening 
as  it  were :  I  might,  perhaps,  catch  a  faint  echo  of 
footsteps  that  fell  here  long  ago;  perhaps  I  might 
even  catch  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  some  dim,  shadowy 
figure,  robed  in  its  sumptuous  gown  of  rustling  silk, 
or  cloth  of  gold,  with  faded  flowers  in  its  hair,  flit- 
ting around  some  gray  corner;  might  perhaps  catch 
a  dim,  faint  hum  of  voices,  long  silent,  of  some  of 
those  who  once  lived  and  intrigued  here,  in  those 
days  so  long  gone  by.  The  spirit  of  tranquillity 
seemed  brooding  over  all,  and  never  a  sigh  or  a  sound 
came  back  to  me. 

It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  allow  oneself  to  drift  away 
on  a  sea  of  speculation,  and  the  silence  of  these  great 
empty  spaces  is  conducive  to  just  that  vague  state 
of  mind  that  allows  one  to  indulge  in  the  speculative 
and  fanciful  thoughts  that  seem  to  come  surging 
through  the  brain  at  such  times  and  under  such  con- 
ditions. 

The  rooms  which  were  especially  devoted  to  the 
service   of   Marie   Antoinette   are   most  beautifully 


250  PARIS 

situated.  They  look  directly  upon  the  great  gardens 
to  the  south,  then  to  the  Orangery,  and  finally,  off 
on  the  horizon,  to  the  deep,  dark  woods  of  Satory. 

There  are  still  many  lovely  pieces  of  furniture  in 
these  rooms,  but  they  have  undoubtedly  passed 
through  many  changes  since  the  time  of  the  ill- 
starred  little  Austrian  archduchess,  who  became 
France's  queen. 

Here  are  also  the  chambers  of  Louis  XIV;  and 
over  his  bed,  which  has  been  fenced  around  by  a 
railing  to  keep  away  the  profane,  is  a  huge  canopy 
of  the  usual  crimson  damask. 

This  is  the  central  point  of  the  palace,  and  in  some  respects,  the 
central  point  of  the  French  Monarchy.  All  the  affairs  of  the  na- 
tion converged  in  this  room  .  .  .  where  he  gave  audience  to  Am- 
bassadors, and  to  the  Pope's  nuncio,  and  where  he  dined  au  petit 
convert,  that  is  to  say,  alone,  on  a  little  square  table  in  front  of 
the  central  window. 

And  it  was  in  this  room,  too,  that  on  September  I, 
17 1 5,  Louis  XIV  died,  "in  a  bed  that  stood  on  the 
same  spot  as  the  one  that  we  see  to-day."  It  was 
just  four  days  before  his  death  that  he  had  called  for 
the  little  Dauphin,  who,  after  his  death,  would  be- 
come Louis  XV,  and  said  to  him: 

"Do  not  follow  the  bad  example  that  I  have  given 
you  in  the  matter  of  war;  I  often  entered  upon  it  too 
lightly  and  continued  it  from  vanity.  Do  not  imitate 
me,  but  be  pacific,  and  let  your  chief  occupation  be 
the  relief  of  your  subjects." 

Of  course,  the  poor  little  prince  cried,  as  did  all 
the  others  who  were  there  and  heard  it. 

The  influence  of  Louis  XIV  is  felt  at  every  turn, 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  251 

just  as  is  that  of  Marie  Antoinette.  Louis  XVI  is 
hardly  thought  of,  and  poor  Louis  XV  is  utterly  lack- 
ing in  influence. 

These  rooms  are  said  to  be  still  very  much  as  they 
were  at  the  time  of  the  death  of  Louis  XIV,  although 
not  actually  containing  the  exact  pieces  of  furniture 
that  were  there  at  that  time.  However,  we  can  form 
a  very  good  idea,  perhaps,  of  how  the  rooms  really 
did  look. 

Here,  too,  are  the  apartments  of  Madame  de 
Maintenon,  and  of  Madame  du  Barry;  and  one  has 
the  feeling  all  the  time  that  they  may  come  in  sud- 
denly, and  demand  why  we  are  there  without  an 
invitation. 

From  the  windows  of  the  Salon  at  the  corner  of 
the  Marble  Court,  Louis  XV  "watched  the  funeral 
procession  of  Madame  de  Pompadour  disappearing 
along  the  Avenue  de  Paris,  on  April  16,  1764.  It 
was  nearly  dark,  and  the  weather  was  extremely 
bad;  but  the  King  stood  bareheaded  in  the  storm 
until  the  last  torches  of  the  procession  had  vanished. 
It  has  been  recorded  by  eyewitnesses  that  his  eyes 
were  overflowing  with  tears,  and  he  said  to  those 
who  were  with  him  :  'Alas !  I  have  lost  one  who  has 
been  my  friend  for  twenty  years,  and  this  is  the 
only  mark  of  respect  that  I  can  pay  her!'  This 
sounds  very  different  from  the  heartless  words  that 
many  writers  have  ascribed  to  the  King." 

There  is  one  room  which  is  236  feet  long  and  33 
feet  wide, — the  Gallery  of  Mirrors.  One  must  have 
good  eyes  to  be  able  to  distinguish  any  one  at  the 


252  PARIS 

far  end.  This  great  hall  opens  on  to  the  marvelous 
gardens,  upon  which  we  may  feast  our  eyes  through 
any  one  of  the  seventeen  deep-set  windows;  and  if 
one  should  not  wish  to  be  detected  in  the  act  of 
peeping  out  at  persons  upon  whom  he  might  wish 
to  spy,  he  could  turn  his  back  to  the  great  windows, 
and  look  instead  into  any  one  of  the  seventeen  enor- 
mous mirrors  that  stand  opposite  each  one  of  them, 
and  in  that  way  see  all  that  might  be  transpiring. 
They  are  perfect  spyglasses,  and  may,  perhaps,  have 
often  been  put  to  such  purpose,  in  the  days  when 
the  kings  and  their  lords  and  ladies  flitted  through 
these  gardens. 

The  vaulted  roof  is  covered  with  paintings  and 
gildings,  which  greatly  enhance  the  magnificence  of 
the  hall,  which,  in  the  time  of  Louis  XIV,  must  have 
been  beautiful  beyond  description.     To  quote : 

Two  carpets  of  a  light  color  from  the  Savonnerie  covered  the 
parquet  floor,  while  the  windows  were  furnished  with  curtains  of 
white  damask,  embroidered  with  the  King's  monogram  in  gold. 
In  the  evening  the  mirrors  reflected  the  candles  of  the  fourteen 
crystal  and  silver  chandeliers  that  hung  from  the  ceiling.  All  the 
furniture  was  of  enamel  and  chased  silver — tables  large  and  small, 
stools,  cressets  and  girandoles,  candelabra  and  chandeliers — and 
the  numerous  orange  trees  that  stood  along  the  marble  walls  were 
in  marvelous  tubs  of  chased  silver.  .  .  .  This  collection  was  the 
work  of  the  most  skillful  silversmiths,  but  unhappily  it  was  not 
long  in  existence,  for  the  misfortunes  of  war  obliged  the  King  to 
send  all  these  incomparable  masterpieces  to  the  Mint  to  be  melted 
down.  We  can  form  some  idea  of  them  from  the  old  pictures  and 
tapestry  in  which  some  of  them  are  depicted.  The  furniture  that 
replaced  them  was  made  of  gilded  wood  of  delicate  workmanship, 
but  it  also  has  disappeared. 

Close  by  is  the  beautiful  room  in  which  Marie 
Antoinette  used  to  play  cards;  and  it  is  said  that  at 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  253 

times  the  stakes  were  enormous.  The  whole  place 
is  filled  with  phantoms,  whose  influence  seems  to  be 
especially  strong  when  we  reach  the  apartments  of 
Louis  XVI  and  his  ill-fated  queen,  throwing  over  all 
a  sort  of  gentle  melancholy. 

Those  who  are  interested  in  the  memories  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution will  look  with  emotion  upon  the  balcony  of  the  King's  room. 
On  October  6,  1789,  when  the  people  of  Paris  invaded  the  Palace 
and  crowded,  with  threats,  and  with  some  arms  in  their  hands,  into 
the  Marble  Court  beneath  the  windows  of  the  royal  apartments, 
some  of  the  courtiers  were  stationed  here,  with  General  Lafayette. 
The  latter  went  to  fetch  the  King,  and  showed  him,  on  this  bal- 
cony, to  the  people.  Then,  in  her  turn,  the  Queen  was  demanded 
by  the  populace,  who  were  clamoring  for  her  death.  She  appeared 
with  her  two  children,  but  the  crowd  cried:  "No  children!"  and 
with  a  gesture  full  of  dignity  and  courage  Marie  Antoinette  put 
her  two  children  behind  her,  and  turned  to  face  the  muskets  that 
were  pointed  at  her,  certain  that  her  last  hour  had  come.  Her 
courageous  bearing  impressed  the  insurgents,  who,  with  one  of 
those  sudden  changes  characteristic  of  French  crowds,  always  ready 
to  respond  to  bravery,  cried:  "Vive  le  Roi !  Vive  la  Reine!  Let 
us  take  them  to  Paris!"  Louis  XVI  was  then  obliged  to  promise 
to  go  off  with  his  people  at  once.  Preparations  were  hastily  made, 
and  a  few  hours  afterwards  the  royal  family,  with  the  mob  sur- 
rounding their  carriages,  went  on  their  way  to  Paris  along  the 
avenue  that  is  opposite  to  the  Palace,  to  which  they  were  fated 
never  to  return. 

All  about  these  apartments  is  that  vague,  misty 
melancholy  which  life  and  tragedy  ever  distill. 

Then  there  are  the  beautiful  halls  named  after  the 
gods, — the  Hall  of  Mars,  of  Mercury,  of  Diana,  of 
Venus,  of  Abundance;  and  a  score  more,  besides  the 
lovely  chapel  with  its  banisters  and  gallery  railings 
of  violet  marble  and  gilt.  There  are  acres  of  rooms, 
which  even  to  glance  at  would  require  days  and  days; 
and  over  all,  there  are  the  beautiful  bas-reliefs  of 
angels,  fleur-de-lis,  paintings,  marbles,  and  mosaics, 


254  PARIS 

I  liked  the  paneled  and  begilded  ceilings  and  the 
beautiful  parquet  floors  as  much  as  I  did  anything 
else  in  the  great  palace;  also  the  rare  pieces  of 
furniture  that  still  remain  in  place.  The  exquisite 
objects  of  art  that  used  to  stand  in  these  apartments, 
as  well  as  the  sumptuous  furniture,  were  all  dispersed 
during  the  revolutionary  sales,  and  we  Americans 
stood  there  and  "wondered"  where  it  had  gone  to, 
and  who  had  really  purchased  it.  It  is  said  that 
many  of  the  most  beautiful  pieces  are  to  be  found 
in  Germany,  and  even  as  far  away  as  Russia.  Many 
of  the  pictures  removed  from  this  palace  are  to  be 
seen  in  the  Louvre. 

We  walked  past  miles  of  paintings, — huge  battle- 
pieces,  depicting  history  by  means  of  the  brush;  in 
some  instances,  bringing  back  the  dreadful  past  in 
most  sanguinary  tones.  At  length  we  came  to  a 
huge  painting  of  our  own  George  Washington.  The 
artist  and  his  small  son  took  off  their  hats  as  they 
saluted  the  shade  of  Valley  Forge,  and  the  boy  said: 

"He  looks  just  as  fine  as  the  rest  of  them, — don't 
he,  Pop?" 

The  immense  though  harmonious  lines  of  the 
great  palace  itself  have  been  continued  in  the  appar- 
ently endless  gardens  which  were  laid  out  by  Le 
Notre,  the  greatest  landscape  gardener  of  his  time. 

No  mere  words  can  adequately  convey  a  correct 
idea  of  these  gardens.  There  are  miles  and  miles 
of  gardens.  Long  avenues  stretch  out  in  many  di- 
rections, lined  with  green  trees,  and  at  regular  in- 
tervals,  are  hundreds  of  statues  of  white  marble; 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  255 

there  are  fountains  and  ponds  of  many  sizes  and 
descriptions,  and  a  beautiful  canal  filled  with  water 
that  sparkles  in  the  sun.  But  even  though  all  is 
so  charming,  there  is  always  that  feeling  of  deser- 
tion and  melancholy.  Even  the  great  crowds  that 
swarm  over  the  place  on  Sunday  afternoons  do  not 
seem  to  be  so  joyous  as  those  one  meets  in  other 
places.  They  saunter  along  as  though  they,  too, 
were  expecting  to  meet  some  one  from  the  long- 
distant  past,  who  might  step  out  from  behind  the 
trees  and  demand  why  they  were  taking  such  liberties 
in  these  gardens  of  the  royal  family. 

Some  of  the  fountains  are  enormous, — large 
enough  to  accommodate  a  number  of  pleasure  boats. 
Others  are  smaller.  We  sometimes  went  and  sat 
beside  the  beautiful  Fountain  of  Latone,  watching 
the  waters  scintillating  in  the  sunshine,  and  thinking 
a  little  of  the  past. 

Then  there  is  the  exquisite  Fountain  of  the  Pyra- 
mid, with  its  round  foundation,  the  upper  portions 
growing  smaller  and  smaller  as  they  near  the  sum- 
mit, like  a  pyramid,  the  clear,  sparkling  water  run- 
ning in  cascades  over  the  whole,  emptying  itself  into 
the  large  basin  below. 

Our  little  company  decided  that  the  gardens  were 
more  enjoyable  than  the  long  walks  through  the 
vast  interior  of  the  palace,  but  at  no  time  did  it  ever 
seem  quite  right  for  us  to  laugh  or  be  openly  hilari- 
ous. The  footprints  of  the  dead  are  too  plainly  to 
be  seen  to  admit  of  anything  but  that  quiet,  subdued 


256  PARIS 

feeling  that  one  generally  experiences  when  in  places 
made  famous  by  the  illustrious  dead. 

We  went  out  one  Sunday  to  see  the  great  foun- 
tains play,  a  performance  to  be  witnessed  only  at  cer- 
tain times, — one  Sunday  each  month,  I  believe. 
However,  we  were  more  exasperated  than  enter- 
tained, for  nearly  every  woman  carried  a  parasol, 
and,  to  my  amazement,  did  not  once  close  it  in  order 
that  persons  behind  might  also  enjoy  the  beautiful 
display  of  spurting,  spraying  waters.  This  vast  field 
of  dipping,  swaying  parasols  of  all  shades  and  sizes 
obliterated  the  whole  display,  and  we  gave  it  up  in 
despair,  and  went  out  to  the  Hotel  des  Reservoirs 
for  afternoon  tea.  We  concluded  that  if  we  might 
not  see  the  display,  we  might  as  well  go  and  console 
the  inner  man. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


THE  TWO   TRIANONS 


Upon  another  occasion,  we  went  out  to  visit  the 
two  Trianons,  and  to  revel  a  little  in  reminiscences  of 
the  past.  The  Petit  Trianon  is  some  little  distance 
from  the  Grand  Trianon,  but  every  inch  of  the  space 
is  teeming  with  memories  of  the  poor,  ill-fated  queen, 
Marie  Antoinette.  She  is  dead  and  gone,  but  her 
play-houses  still  stand,  and  we  all  go  out  and  look 
at  them,  with  curiosity  in  our  eyes,  but  sympathy  in 
our  hearts. 

It  was  to  please  Madame  de  Maintenon  that  Louis 
XIV  built  the  Grand  Trianon,  here  on  the  spot  where 
once  stood  the  poor  little  village  of  Trianon;  but  to 
me  her  influence  is  not  compelling.  It  is  always  that 
of  Marie  Antionette  that  is  felt,  to  the  exclusion  of 
all  others. 

Louis  was  extremely  fond  of  this  beautiful  little 
palace,  and  spent  much  of  his  time  here.  Saint  Simon 
says: 

Nothing  could  be  more  magnificent  than  these  evenings  at  Tri- 
anon. The  flowers  in  every  division  of  the  flower-beds  were 
changed  every  day,  and  I  have  seen  the  King  and  Court  leave 
the  garden  on  account  of  the  excessive  number  of  tuberoses,  of 
which  the  scent  made  the  air  fragrant,  but  was  so  strong  on  ac- 
count of  their  numbers  that  no  one  could  stay  in  the  gardens,  al- 

257 


258  PARIS 

though  they  were  of  vast  size  and  were  arranged  in  terraces  on 
an  arm  of  the  canal. 

Great  fetes  were  also  held  here;  but  with  the  death 
of  Louis  the  remarkable  life  of  the  Grand  Trianon 
practically  came  to  an  end.  The  ghosts,  however, 
are  everywhere,  even  that  of  Napoleon.  It  was  to 
this  place  that  he  came  on  the  day  he  was  divorced 
from  Josephine,  while  she  went  on  to  Malmaison. 
"In  the  rooms  where  Napoleon  worked,  the  rooms 
that  he  made  for  a  while  the  center  of  the  govern- 
ment of  his  Empire,  how  can  we  think  of  anybody 
but  him?" 

No  matter  what  the  history  be,  however,  one  can- 
not fail  to  enjoy  the  great  collection  of  beautiful  fur- 
niture of  that  period;  Empire  clocks,  sofas,  chairs, 
pictures,  make  up  a  most  beautiful  collection. 

We  enjoyed  the  Museum  of  Vehicles,  which  we 
found  very  interesting.  Here  are  to  be  seen  most 
gorgeously-painted  carriages,  which  used  to  be  taken 
out  for  use  only  upon  state  occasions,  for  great  func- 
tions, etc.  Here  is  the  carriage  used  by  Napoleon 
at  his  coronation,  as  well  as  that  used  by  Charles 
X.,  at  his  coronation.  Here  are  some  wonderful 
sleighs  with  waving,  beplumed  and  begilded  trap- 
pings; and  some  very  pretty  Sedan  chairs. 

But,  after  looking  at  them  all,  and  admiring  the 
beautifully  painted  flowers  and  cupids  which  decorate 
the  carriages,  we  concluded  that  after  all,  not  a 
vehicle  among  them  was  to  be  compared  for  com- 
fort, with  the  commonest  of  our  present-day  car- 
riages.   They  all  have  stiff,  leather  springs,  or  rather 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  259 

straps  upon  which  the  body  of  the  carriage  rests,  and 
it  is  not  a  difficult  matter  to  conjure  up  the  discom- 
fort of  the  persons  riding  in  them  over  the  roughly 
paved  streets  of  that  time.  No!  We  do  not  have 
such  gorgeously  painted  vehicles  now,  but  we  have 
comfort  to  a  degree  that  they  never  dreamed  of. 
The  matter  of  expense  in  keeping  up  these  places 
must  have  been  one  of  considerable  proportion. 
Was  it  any  wonder  that  a  revolution  developed  under 
it  all? 

The  Petit  Trianon  is  a  most  delightful  little  square 
chateau,  but  one  forgets  its  beauty  in  thinking  of  the 
poor  queen,  and  of  where  she  ended  her  last  days. 
This  is  quite  different  from  the  small  room  in  the 
Temple!  Pierre  de  Nolhac,  the  Director  of  the 
Versailles  Museum,  says: 

The  interior  of  the  chateau  is  still  very  much  as  it  was  when 
Marie  Antionette  occupied  it.  The  staircase,  whose  walls  are  un- 
derrated except  for  some  carving,  has  a  banister  of  wrought  iron 
in  which,  among  the  lyres  and  caducei,  Marie  Antoinette's  cipher 
was  placed. 

On  the  left  side  of  the  landing  is  a  door  leading  to  the  rooms 
in  the  entresol  and  to  the  staircase  of  the  second  floor,  where 
the  rooms  of  the  Queen's  guests  were  situated.  The  door  on  the 
right  leads  to  reception  rooms.  The  antechamber  is  decorated  with 
friezes  by  Natoire.  The  dining-room,  which  comes  next  in  order 
and  has  friezes  by  Pater,  is  remarkable  for  its  woodwork,  on 
which  are  carved  a  number  of  branches  laden  with  fruit,  horns 
of  plenty,  and  other  symbols  connected  with  the  uses  of  the  room. 
Here  we  see,  in  addition  to  the  full  length  portraits  of  Louis  XVI 
and  Marie  Antoinette,  some  pictures  representing  the  latter  danc- 
ing ballets  with  her  brothers  and  sisters,  the  archdukes  and  arch- 
duchesses of  Austria.  The  Empress  Marie  Therese  sent  these  pic- 
tures to  her  daughter  to  remind  her  of  her  childhood. 

And  so,  we  looked  at  them,  trying  to  think  of  this 
queen  as  an  Austrian,  but  she  seems  more  French 


260  PARIS 

than  Austrian,  that  is,  in  reading  of  her.  But  what- 
ever, and  whoever  she  was,  her  influence  is  still  most 
keenly  felt  in  all  these  scenes. 

We  walked  to  the  far  end  of  the  park  of  the  Petit 
Trianon,  to  look  at  the  group  of  rustic  houses  that 
composed  her  "farm," — lovely  little  houses  which 
give  back  their  reflections  from  the  clear  waters  of 
the  small  lake  at  their  base.  It  is  a  sweet,  quiet 
place,  and  one  ceases  to  be  surprised  that  the  poor 
young  queen  liked  to  get  away  from  the  trying  eti- 
quette of  the  court  to  this  cool,  green,  tranquil  place. 

No  credence  must  be  given  to  the  numerous  legends  that  are 
rife  on  the  subject  of  the  hamlets,  such  as  that  which  shows  us 
the  royal  family  playing  at  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  and  as- 
suming various  rustic  characters  in  order  to  live  in  the  hamlet. 
This  is  a  ridiculous  fable.  Marie  Antoinette  never  played  at  keep- 
ing farm,  and  the  King  never  disguised  himself  as  a  miller;  but 
it  is  a  sufficiently  piquant  sight  to  see  them  interesting  themselves 
so  intimately  in  agricultural  labor,  and  seeking  recreation  and 
rest  amid  these  rustic  surroundings.  The  visitor  to  the  Hamlet  of 
Trianon  must  surely  be  deeply  touched  by  such  memories  as  these, 
and  must  wish  these  little  houses  to  be  carefully  preserved. 

Those  days  were  long  ago.  And  now,  in  the  silent,  melancholy 
past,  every  step  reminds  us  poignantly  of  the  past;  by  these  mo- 
tionless statues  fair  queens  have  walked;  it  was  for  them  that  the 
quivering  water  sang  in  the  fountains;  the  golden  leaves  that  fell 
from  the  autumn  trees  are  strewed  with  memories. 

I  liked  the  little  town  of  Versailles  as  much  as 
anything  else.  It  has  a  beautiful  church,  with  an 
ornate  fagade,  topped  off  by  a  small  dome  and  cross. 

There  are  high  old  buildings,  and  shops  with  their 
chairs  set  hospitably  out  on  the  sidewalk,  where  we 
were  pleased  to  sit  and  have  tea  after  our  long  strolls 
through  the  park  and  palace. 

Then,  too,  we  always  enjoyed  having  luncheon  at 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  261 

the  Hotel  des  Reservoirs,  said  to  have  been  a  man- 
sion once  owned  by  Madame  de  Pompadour. 

I  should  certainly  advise  any  one  wishing  really 
to  see  the  palace  and  park  o,f  Versailles,  to  go  and 
stay  for  a  week  or  so  at  one  of  these  nice  old  hotels, 
and  avoid  the  fatigue  of  the  trip  back  to  town  after 
the  visits  and  walks.  A  week  is  really  not  too  much 
to  devote  to  Versailles. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  HUMBERT  AFFAIR 

A  MONTH  in  America  and  a  winter  on  the  French 
Riviera,  when,  in  May,  I  suddenly  reappeared,  with- 
out previous  announcement!  I  was  just  in  time  for 
dinner  that  evening,  and  I  was  surprised  at  the  pleas- 
ure with  which  I  was  received.  Monsieur  Frangais 
at  once  ordered  white  wine  instead  of  the  usual  red, 
— and  I  know  of  no  greater  sign  of  pleasure  in  a 
French  household  than  that. 

But,  there  were  changes.  Mrs.  Harmon  had  long 
since  returned  to  England,  and  there  were  several 
new  faces. 

Everybody  at  the  table  talked  of  the  differences 
then  existing  between  the  Roman  Church  and  the 
Government;  in  fact,  little  else  was  talked  of.  I  had 
brought  back  with  me  some  letters  of  introduction 
to  some  people  then  living  in  Paris,  but  I  was  so  in- 
terested in  all  this  news  that  I  feared  to  present 
them  and  run  any  chance  of  being  invited  out  for 
dinner  (introductions  generally  mean  just  so  many 
dinners),  and  I  did  not  want  to  absent  myself  from 
a  single  dinner  so  long  as  these  interesting  discussions 
were  in  progress. 

There  was  much  talk  of  the  entire  separation  of 

262 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  263 

church  and  government;  of  closing  the  convents  and 
religious  houses;  of  forcing  priests,  monks  and  nuns, 
to  leave  their  schools  and  convents, — I  believe,  in 
some  instances,  to  leave  the  city,  and  even  the  coun- 
try. It  was  some  trouble  about  asking  permission 
of  the  government  to  run  their  schools,  and  so  on, 
which,  it  seems,  they  were  refusing  to  do. 

Such  exciting  conversation !  Such  arguments,  pro 
and  con ! 

And  so  it  went,  night  after  night,  but  to  this  day 
I  do  not  know  which  side  the  family  espoused, — I 
only  know  that  Madame  Francois  always  knelt  and 
said  a  prayer  when  she  would  go  to  visit  different 
churches  with  me.  Monsieur  Francois  was  inscruta- 
ble; so  I  have  no  idea  of  the  side  he  took. 

There  was  also  another  matter  of  interest  to  the 
general  public,  over  which  the  debates  were  prac- 
tically unlimited.  A  certain  Madam  Humbert  was 
holding  the  center  of  the  stage, — a  wonderful  woman 
of  daring  ingenuity,  who  had  robbed  and  plundered 
people  of  vast  sums  of  money,  but  had  been  snared 
at  last.  She  was  so  clever  that  she  deserved  to  es- 
cape. 

Madam  Humbert  was  the  daughter  of  a  peasant,  who  married 
the  dilettante  son  of  an  ex-minister  of  justice  to  secure  the  social 
position,  and  then  invented  a  huge  fortune  left  to  her  by  a  mythical 
American  millionaire  named  Crawford,  on  which  to  borrow. 

Law  suits  were  invented  to  tie  the  fortune  up  in  litigation.  The 
Humberts  displayed  the  safe  in  which  the  millions  were  sealed,  and 
manufactured  Crawford  heirs  to  take  the  case  into  the  courts  to 
keep  up  the  deception. 

Meanwhile  they  borrowed  and  they  borrowed,  mainly  on  the 
strength  of  high  interest  rates,  to  be  paid  when  the  fortune  was 
theirs.     For  twenty  years  they  played  on  the  usurious  instincts  of 


264  PARIS 

the  rich,  and  when  the  safe  was  finally  opened  by  Court  decree, 
and  was  found  to  contain  an  old  newspaper  and  a  collar-button, 
the  world  wasted  little  sympathy  on   the   Humberts'  victims. 

If  rich  people  were  so  greedy  as  to  be  dazzled  by 
the  tempting  bait  of  high  rates  of  interest,  why 
should  any  one  feel  sorry  for  them,  was  the  ques- 
tion; and  each  night  the  discussions  were  renewed. 
Every  paper  was  filled  with  the  Humbert  news,  but 
all  the  time  I  felt  that  it  was  too  bad  for  such  clever 
people  to  have  to  "cash  in."  Twenty  years  of  wealth 
and  luxury  on  a  capital  of  an  old  newspaper  and  a 
collar-button!  One  lone  collar-button!  Could  we 
beat  it  in  America? 

The  trouble  brewing  between  the  Church  and  the 
Government  was  almost  lost  sight  of  in  the  interest 
of  the  public  in  this  wonderful  woman.  It  all  read 
like  a  fairy  tale.  She  had  certainly  been  wide  awake 
to  the  amount  of  good  things  that  might  be  obtained 
in  this  world  by  very  little  striving. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

NOTRE    DAME    DE    CONSOLATION.       THE     xMUSEE     DE 
CLUNY.       FRENCH   WOMEN.      THE   CHATELET 

One  afternoon  Miss  Ahnrate  and  I  were  prowling 
about  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Place  d'lena,  with 
no  objective  point  in  view,  and  walking  along  the  Rue 
Jean-Goujon,  we  came  to  a  small  church,  or  rather 
chapel,  Notre  Dame  de  Consolation. 

We  went  up  and  opened  the  door,  and,  as  we 
pushed  it  gently  open,  were  greeted  with  a  sound, — 
a  peculiar  sound,  as  of  a  company  of  people,  away 
off  somewhere,  humming  together.  The  sound  of 
this  musical  intonation  seemed  to  circle  around  and 
around  the  sanctuary,  sometimes  seeming  to  be  in 
the  great  painted  dome  overhead,  and  sometimes 
seeming  to  come  from  the  rear,  then  from  the 
sides, — everywhere.  It  was  several  minutes  before 
we  located  this  music  of  desolation  as  coming  from 
behind  the  high  altar,  with  its  great  gilded  Virgin  in 
the  foreground.  It  has  a  strange  effect  upon  a 
stranger  coming  in  for  the  first  time, — one  stands 
with  mouth  agape,  marveling  at,  and  trying  to  lo- 
cate this  mournful  music  for  the  dead. 

This  is  a  memorial  chapel  that  has  been  erected 
on   the   site   of   the   terrible   charity  bazaar  fire   in 

265 


266  PARIS 

1897,  when  more  than  a  hundred  persons  were  killed. 
And  here,  behind  the  high  altar,  kneeling  nuns  pray 
night  and  day,  year  in  and  year  out,  without  ceasing, 
for  the  repose  of  their  souls.  One  company  of  nuns 
prays  a  certain  length  of  time,  then  another  comes 
to  relieve  it,  and  so  on.  They  are  the  nuns  of  the 
Adoration  Perpetuelle,  I  believe. 

However,  the  effect  is  depressing;  one  lives  the 
catastrophe  all  over  each  time  he  enters  the  chapel. 

In  the  dome,  the  beautiful  faces  there  painted  are 
the  portraits  of  those  who  perished  in  the  flames; 
and  most  beautifully  appropriate,  the  picture  repre- 
sents Christ  receiving  the  victims  into  Paradise. 
Surely  they  deserve  it! 

All  along  the  sides, — that  is,  the  walls  of  the 
ambulatory, — are  marble  tablets  bearing  the  names 
of  those  whose  life  went  out  in  the  awful  flames,  and 
we  spent  a  melancholy  afternoon  walking  along  and 
reading  them.  There  are  some  very  handsome 
sculptures,  sacred  urns,  and  ecclesiastical  parapher- 
nalia, and  upon  one  monument  we  read  the  name  of 
the  Duchesse  d'Alencon.     Poor  Duchesse ! 

I  was  told  in  Paris  that  it  was  the  money  of  the 
Gould  family  that  had  made  this  memorial  possible, 
that  they  contributed  most  of  the  funds  for  it.  But 
of  the  truth  of  the  matter  I  cannot  be  positive. 

One  afternoon  the  young  son  of  my  American 
artist  friends  came  over,  gay  as  a  dickey-bird,  to  ask 
me  to  go  "nosing"  with  him  to  the  Musee  de  Cluny. 
A  museum  visited  in  company  with  a  young  boy  is 
well  worth  the  time  spent,  for  he  will  see  more  in 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  267 

a  minute  than  an  older  person  will  see  in  an  hour. 

Everybody  knows  everything  about  Cluny,  and  one 
might  well  consider  that  the  final  word  had  been 
spoken  concerning  its  great  accumulation  of  art 
treasures  and  reminiscences,  but  every  one  does  not 
know  how  Cluny  appears  to  a  boy. 

The  place  is  filled  with  tapestries,  gildings,  ivories, 
bas-reliefs,  and  relics,  but  the  collection  that  most 
strongly  appealed  to  the  American  boy  was  that 
of  the  locksmiths'  work:  locks,  knockers,  knives, 
lanterns,  and  hunting  utensils.  Heaven  defend  us ! — 
he  fairly  beamed  over  it.  There  was  an  enormous 
corkscrew,  which  he  pronounced  a  "jewel!"  He 
went  about,  from  corkscrews  to  lanterns, — from 
knockers  to  knives — he  didn't  know  which  he  wanted 
the  most. 

It  seems  to  me  that  Cluny  is  even  richer  than  the 
Louvre  in  its  collection  of  inlaid  work,  ivories,  and 
tapestries.  Here  is  a  set  of  a  half-dozen  pieces  of 
beautiful  tapestry,  showing  forth  the  legend  of  The 
Lady  and  the  Unicorn,  which  could  not  fail  to  give 
pleasure  to  those  who  enjoy  this  kingly  fabric.  But 
I  cannot  say  that  the  boy  enthused  any  over  it.  He 
preferred  the  bolts,  and  locks,  and  lanterns;  and 
I  must  admit  that  as  much  of  my  attention  was  given 
to  the  exquisite  building  itself  as  to  its  treasures  of 
art.  I  do  not  believe  there  is  any  more  beautiful 
building  in  Paris  than  the  Palace  of  Cluny. 

There  are  several  rooms  in  it  filled  with  collec- 
tions of  pottery, — French  and  Italian  Faience, 
Palissy,  and  specimens  of  Delia   Robbia  ware,  the 


268  PARIS 

best  of  which  is  "The  Martyrdom  of  Saint  Catherine, 
in  which  angels  are  represented  breaking  the  spokes 
of  her  instrument  of  torture."  However,  I  do  not 
care  for  these  torture  representations. 

We  made  a  number  of  visits  afterward, — just 
rambling  about  this  lovely  old  building,  looking  at 
whatever  happened  to  attract  our  attention  at  the 
moment;  and,  as  Baedeker  says  that  there  are  some- 
thing like  eleven  thousand  objects  to  be  seen,  one  can 
easily  comprehend  that  several  visits  might  be  neces- 
sary to  gain  any  idea  of  its  treasures,  and  then  some- 
thing might  be  overlooked. 

We  liked  to  loiter  in  the  old  gardens  and  look  at 
the  beautiful  gothic  windows  of  the  palace;  and  used 
just  to  meander  from  place  to  place,  looking  at 
nothing  especially  and  at  everything  generally. 

This  is  a  very  satisfactory  way  in  which  to  visit 
these  great  museums  that  are  so  filled  with  things 
of  large  human  interest,  as,  by  our  saunterings  to 
and  fro,  we  are  enabled  to  breathe  in  the  spirit  of 
the  place,  as  it  were,  and  come  finally  to  feel  as 
though  we  know  something  of  it. 

There  are  some  extremely  beautiful  chimney- 
pieces  to  be  seen,  which  are  well  worth  a  visit,  in  a 
number  of  the  apartments. 

After  our  first  visit  I  asked  the  boy  what  we 
should  have  for  our  refreshment, — where  we  should 
go,  as  there  is  no  "ice-cream  soda"  in  Paris;  that  is, 
not  such  as  we  have  at  home.  I  almost  dropped 
when  he  said: 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  269 

"Oh,  by  all  means,  let's  go  to  the  Ritz  and  have 
afternoon  tea!" 

Afternoon  tea  at  the  Ritz  for  a  boy  of  fifteen! 
Saints  and  angels  defend  us!  One  should  never 
ask  a  child  what  he  wishes  to  do  unless  he  is  pre- 
pared to  censent,  to  my  way  of  thinking,  and  so, — 
we  called  a  carriage  and  went  to  the  Hotel  Ritz  for 
tea.  If  he  had  said:  "Punch  and  Judy,"  or  "The 
Wax  Works,"  I  should  not  have  been  surprised. 
But,  the  Ritz, — for  tea  ! 

However,  it  was  worth  the  visit. 

Long  lines  of  carriages  drove  up,  deposited  beau- 
tifully-gowned women  and  wonderfully-mustached 
men,  and  drove  on. 

The  great  salon  was  brilliant  with  lights,  the  lit- 
tle garden  was  filled — every  table  taken, — and  all 
present  were  busily  indulging  in  that  agreeable  Eng- 
lish social  function  of  Afternoon  Tea.  The  low  hum 
of  well-modulated  voices  was  to  be  heard  on  all  sides, 
and  the  atmosphere  was  redolent  of  that  subtle  some- 
thing produced  by  superb  toilettes,  good  manners, 
and  the  genial  tea-pot. 

We  were  seated  at  a  table  spread  with  snowy 
damask,  and  the  tea  was  served  in  a  glittering  pot 
of  silver,  the  tea-cups  thin  as  egg-shells. 

One  has  to  admit  that  these  French  women  know 
how  to  wear  their  clothes;  they  have  an  art, — a  trick 
of  dress, — so  subtle  as  to  baffle  any  attempt  at 
definition,  which  imparts  an  air  of  distinction,  of 
"race,"  to  all  their  movements.  It  is  quite  impossi- 
ble to  tell  just  what  it  is;  but  it  is  there,  and  the 


270  PARIS 

effect  is, — well,  French.  One  could  scarcely  say  that 
personal  magnetism  would  explain  it.  Michelet  said 
a  French  woman's  beauty  was  "made  up  of  little 
things."  Yes?  But  of  just  what  do  the  "little  things" 
consist?  If  one  knew,  there  might  be  no  further 
mystery, — the  riddle  would  be  solved.  They  have 
that  peculiar  air  of  "race"  that  has  taken  many  cen- 
turies to  produce,  and  a  mere  modern  might  have 
difficulty  in  trying  to  live  up  to  them. 

I  find  a  certain  pleasure  in  losing  myself  in  places 
like  this, — of  being  alone  among  strangers, — where 
I  can  find  my  enjoyment  in  observing  them.  Here, 
all  those  graces  and  refinements  and  amenities  that 
render  social  life  such  an  agreeable  pastime,  have 
been  highly  developed,  and  give  out  a  radiance  that 
fairly  illuminates  any  social  function.  And  where 
can  one  observe  his  fellows  to  better  advantage  than 
in  the  public  salons  of  a  great  hotel?  The  senti- 
ent observation  of  human  beings  is  about  as  enjoy- 
able a  pastime  as  one  might  find  in  the  whole  world, 
to  those  who  really  enjoy  the  great  spectacle  of  hu- 
man life.  It  is  truly  an  extremely  pleasant  way  in 
which  to  extract  information  of  our  surroundings. 

There  are  always  such  numbers  of  interesting  per- 
sons,— persons  about  whom  it  might  be  entertaining 
to  theorize;  persons  about  whom  it  might  be  impos- 
sible to  make  any  prophecy;  persons  exhibiting  a  se- 
rene indifference  to  all  about  them;  many  in  a  more 
joyous  mood;  faces  full  of  history,  ancient  and  mod- 
ern, and  all  sorts  and  styles  of  persons, — there  is  so 
much  in  Paris  to  be  learned  about  the  lives  of  men. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  271 

Who  are  these  people,  anyway?  Persons  they  are 
that  do  not  seem  to  belong  to  any  time  or  place — a 
great  kaleidoscopic  assortment  of  extraordinarily 
well-dressed,  well-mannered  men  and  women! 

And  there  we  sat,  the  boy  and  I,  looking  on  at 
the  show  and  sipping  our  tea.  As  I  have  said  before, 
American  children  can  learn  a  lot  in  foreign  lands 
without  ever  opening  a  book.  Imagine  an  Ohio 
school  boy  asking  for  afternoon  tea  at  the  Ritz, — 
one  of  the  very  fashionable  hotels  of  Paris!  I  have 
always  the  feeling  that  he  was  abnormal, — that  he 
should  have  asked  for  Punch  and  Judy  at  the  Luxem- 
bourg Gardens,  or  the  Wax  Works  at  the  Musee 
Grevin. 

Nevertheless,  I  sometimes  feel  that  this  trans- 
planting of  children  is  not  just  exactly  right.  How- 
ever, I  do  not  feel  convinced  about  it.  It  may  be  all 
right  while  they  are  still  children,  but  later  on  they 
grow  away  from  the  home  country;  the  tie  that  binds 
them  to  its  influences  and  its  traditions  is  cut,  and 
they  find  themselves  out  of  their  own  element,  and 
not  exactly  in  sympathy  with  the  country  that  may 
have  been  adopted, — a  very  deplorable  condition,  in 
many  ways.  But  still,  everything  has  its  compensa- 
tion. 

This  same  boy  it  was  who  suggested  one  evening, 
that  we  go  to  see  some  Russian  dancers  who  were 
then  performing  at  the  Theatre  Chatelet.  Of  course, 
we  went,  and  had  a  very  enjoyable  evening  in  watch- 
ing the  evolutions  of  these  wonderful  dancers,  which 


272  PARIS 

were  of  a  character  which  could  not  fail  to  give  de- 
light. 

The  dancing  in  Russia  must  be  quite  different  from 
that  in  any  other  country,  judging  by  what  one  sees 
of  its  representatives.  It  is  beautiful,  spectacular, — 
a  strange  mixture  of  the  oriental  and  the  occidental: 
wild  tossings  of  the  arms  and  legs  and  strange  pos- 
ings,  accompanied  by  music  wild  and  weird,  sweet 
and  soothing.  The  Slavonic  temperament  of  these 
dancers  readily  lends  itself  to  a  complete  abandon- 
ment in  the  intricate  evolutions  of  these  marvelous 
movements  of  agility  and  mysterious  grace. 

People  sat  there,  quite  breathless  sometimes,  as 
if  they  feared  a  movement  might  destroy  some  evo- 
lution of  the  whirling,  posing  figures.  They  use  such 
a  lot  of  jewels, — whole  strings  of  pearls, — in  their 
make-up. 

Our  boy  then  informed  us  (in  the  manner  of  a 
man  about  fifty  years  old)  that  he  did  not  wish  "to 
turn  in"  just  then.  So,  we  found  seats  in  front  of  a 
cafe  on  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  had  an  ice,  and 
sat  there  for  a  time,  watching  the  crowds  of  people 
who  seem  to  move  on  and  on,  in  never-ending 
streams,  under  the  brilliant  night  lights,  to  some  des- 
tination of  which  no  one  knows.  That  boy  always 
knew  exactly  what  he  wanted,  and  how  to  obtain  it; 
which  is  much  more  than  many  older  persons  know. 
To  know  exactly  what  one  wants,  is  more  than  half 
the  battle. 

The  lighting  of  the  Chatelet  seems  to  me  very 
agreeable,  as  the  light  is  let  in  through  a  great  glass. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  273 

roof  over  the  auditorium;  there  being  no  chandeliers 
at  all,  the  effect  is  produced  of  a  soft,  subdued  light, 
coming  from  some  unseen  source,  and  very  material- 
ly enhances  the  beauty  of  the  women  in  the  audience. 
All  look  well  in  the  soft  light  falling  from  above  in 
such  subdued  tones. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

WINDOW  SHOPPING.      KID  GLOVES  AND  MOBS.      THE 
CHURCH  SCHOOLS  AND  THE  GOVERNMENT 

One  beautiful  afternoon  a  Mrs.  Monteith,  a 
Scotch  lady  then  living  in  the  pension,  asked  me  to 
go  with  her  to  see  the  shop  windows  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix,  the  Avenue  de  l'Opera,  and  under  the  arcades 
of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  just  to  amuse  ourselves  looking 
at  the  lovely  fripperies  for  sale  in  all  these  streets. 
Window  shopping  is  generally  an  amusement  to  the 
majority  of  women, — certainly  it  is  in  a  great  beauti- 
ful city  in  some  foreign  land. 

In  Paris  the  custom  of  devoting  a  small  shop  to 
the  sale  of  certain  articles  only,  furnishes  miles  of 
interesting  shop-window  displays.  In  America, 
where  everything  under  the  sun  is  to  be  found  in  one 
great  store,  under  one  roof,  we  have,  perhaps,  only 
a  few  blocks  of  brilliant  shop  displays.  I  will  say 
this,  however:  America  leads  the  world  in  shop- 
window  displays.  Paris  cannot  compare  with  us  in 
that  respect. 

Here  is  a  wee  shop,  perhaps,  wherein  one  finds 
gloves  only;  next  door,  we  find  handkerchiefs;  then 
comes  one  devoted  to  collars  and  various  kinds  of 
neckware;  then  comes  a  window  filled  with  brass  and 

274 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  275 

copper  coffee  machines,  tea-pots,  kettles,  and  the 
like;  then,  in  the  arcades  of  the  Palais  Royal  is  an 
unlimited  display  of  gimcracks  and  cheap  jewelry  of 
all  kinds.  One  can  spend  hours  in  this  very  inex- 
pensive diversion,  if  one  enjoys  it;  and  what  woman 
does  not? 

I  notice  that  when  jewelry  is  imitation,  a  sign  is 
displayed  to  that  effect.  I  am  told  that  government 
inspectors  keep  close  watch  upon  all  shops  that  no 
false  labels  attract  the  unwary. 

Upon  this  occasion  we  left  the  Metropolitan  Un- 
derground Railway  at  the  Tuileries,  and  crossing  the 
Rue  de  Rivoli  to  the  Rue  des  Pyramids,  suddenly 
found  ourselves  in  the  midst  of  an  immense  con- 
course of  people.  We  looked  first  one  way,  then  the 
other.  Being  an  American,  I  looked  for  a  fire,  but 
saw  no  smoke  or  anything  to  indicate  a  conflagra- 
tion. There  was  no  uproar,  no  excitement,  but  as 
I  did  not  know  what  the  trouble  was, — what  had 
happened  to  cause  such  a  crowd  to  collect, — I  felt  a 
little  nervous,  and  began  to  look  about  for  an  avenue 
of  escape. 

Just  then,  two  officers  (gendarmes,  I  presume, — 
but  of  this  I  cannot  be  certain,)  mounted  on  superb 
brown  horses,  charged  straight  into  the  crowd, — 
directly  into  the  mass  of  people  quietly  lined  up  sev- 
eral deep,  along  the  sidewalks.  I  was  terror-stricken 
and  amazed  at  such  an  action,  and  surely  enough  I 
began  to  look  for  a  way  to  creep  out  and  make  my 
escape  from  the  crowd  that  increased  each  moment. 
For  some  amazing  reason,  nobody  was  hurt.     People 


276  PARIS 

simply  dodged  back  and  jumped  out  of  the  way,  and 
the  officers  on  the  superb  brown  horses  charged  on, 
and  circled  down  the  street. 

Moral  courage,  bravery,  courage  of  any  sort,  pifff 
All  vanished!  Not  an  ounce  of  courage  remained, 
and  I  was  frankly  and  undeniably  terrified.  The 
people  in  all  the  shops  along  the  street  were  busily 
engaged  in  pulling  down  the  heavy  roll-shutters  of 
iron  that  are  nearly  always  to  be  seen  over  the  win- 
dows of  the  shops  in  Paris.  Still,  no  one  seemed  ex- 
cited, but  all  were  talking,  each  with  the  other,  in 
rather  subdued  tones,  varied  at  intervals  by  those 
wonderful  gestures  of  French  design  which  these 
people  seem  to  understand  so  well  how  to  use  to 
express  those  things  which  could  not  be  expressed 
by  word  of  mouth.  In  a  few  moments,  those  gen- 
darmes came  galloping  back,  and  then  I  wildly 
clutched  at  my  frightened  companion,  and  we  both 
took  to  our  heels  and  fled  down  the  street  at  full 
speed,  and  never  stopped  until  we  plunged  into  the 
Avenue  de  l'Opera,  and — another  mob !  The  con- 
flict, whatever  it  might  be,  began  to  assume  a  spec- 
tacular aspect  to  my  frightened  eyes,  and  I  began 
to  wonder  just  where  the  line  of  escape  might  lie. 

They  were  more  vociferous  here,  though  there 
were  no  demonstrations  of  an  alarming  character, 
except,  that  all  the  windows  were  being  hastily  cover- 
ed with  the  great  gray  iron  shutters, — you  could  hear 
their  roll  and  rumble  all  along  the  street.  We  were 
frightened  almost  out  of  our  wits;  we  looked  wildly 
in  all  directions  for  a  fiacre;  we  did  not  know  whether 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  277 

it  was  the  beginning  of  another  Reign  of  Terror  or 
not.  I  had  been  allowing  my  mind  to  dwell  upon 
those  awful  days  for  so  long,  that  I  presume  it  might 
be  considered  only  a  natural  consequence  that  my 
mind  should  take  that  line  of  thought.  Robespierre 
was  dead,  but  I  began  to  fear  that  barricades  might 
be  constructed  over  the  streets  before  we  could  reach 
home,  and  then  what? 

In  our  fright  and  consternation,  we  turned  again 
and  fled, — down  the  Avenue  de  l'Opera,  looking  this 
way  and  that  for  a  carriage.  We  were  breathless 
with  running  and  with  that  demoralizing  sense  of 
fear  that  sometimes  overtakes  the  bravest  when  con- 
fronting a  danger  for  which  there  seems  to  be  no 
explanation, — not  knowing  what  it  was  that  was 
happening  in  so  many  places  all  at  once,  when,  all 
of  a  sudden,  we  saw  in  a  fine  shop  window,  some 
white  kid  gloves  on  sale  for  thirty  cents  a  pair! 
War,  and  rumors  of  war, — revolutions  and  Reigns 
of  Terror, — barricades  and  mob  rule, — all  fled! 
What  were  they  in  comparison  with  a  sale  of  white 
kid  gloves  at  thirty  cents  a  pair!  We  halted;  they 
were  just  beginning  to  lower  the  great  gray  shutters, 
but,  in  we  rushed, — to  buy  gloves ! 

It  was  not  until  after  the  gloves  had  been  pur- 
chased, and  we  were  awaiting  our  packages  and 
change,  that  it  occurred  to  us  to  ask  about  the  dis- 
turbances. It  was  the  matter  of  the  edict  of  the 
Government  against  the  Church  Schools  !  I  make  no 
comments — I  tell  only  exactly  what  we  saw. 

We  then  asked  the  clerk  who  had  waited  upon  us, 


278  PARIS 

if  he  could  not  let  us  out  the  back  way,  so  as  to  avoid 
the  crowds  on  the  Avenue  de  l'Opera.  He  very  kind- 
ly opened  a  door  at  the  back  of  the  store-room,  and 
we  at  once  found  ourselves — back  in  the  Rue  des 
Pyramids ! 

Fearing  to  meet  the  mob  again,  we  rushed  down- 
another  short  street,  and  found  ourselves  in  the  Rue 
Saint  Roch,  and  in  another  moment  confronted  an- 
other mob — larger  than  either  of  the  others !  How- 
ever, now  that  we  knew  what  the  trouble  was,  our 
fear  was  gone,  and  we  entered  the  crowd  and  stood 
quietly  with  the  rest  of  the  people,  waiting  for  I 
knew  not  what.  I  did  not  know  what  was  going  to 
happen, — I  did  not  know  what  to  expect. 

Across  the  street  was  the  side  entrance  to  the 
Church  of  Saint  Roch,  or  to  a  convent  connected 
with  it  (I  am  not  sure  about  this).  However,  there 
were  three  closed  carriages  standing  at  the  foot  of 
a  flight  of  steps  that  led  up  to  a  closed  door,  which, 
after  a  few  moments,  opened,  and  out  came  five  or 
six  nuns,  dressed  in  black  dresses,  black  bonnets,  and 
heavy  black  veils  which  completely  covered  their 
faces.  They  carried  small  black  satchels,  as  though 
about  to  start  upon  a  journey.  With  heads  bowed, 
and  veils  closely  drawn,  they  came  down  the  steps. 

There  was  a  sort  of  groan  from  the  crowd  (not  a 
murmur,  a  groan)  and  every  man  took  off  his  hat 
and  dropped  to  his  knees,  as  did  also  the  women. 
We,  too,  dropped  to  our  knees,  though  just  why,  we 
did  not  know,  except  that  the  others  did  so,  and  I 
have  found  that  an  outward  conformity  to  the  man- 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  279 

ners  of  those  with  whom  we  find  ourselves  asso- 
ciated gives  a  greater  amount  of  safety  and  opportu- 
nity for  observation  than  anything  else.  In  a  strange 
land  I  always  do  as  others  do. 

The  nuns  sort  of  nodded  their  heads  in  a  depre- 
cating way,  climbed  into  the  carriages,  the  doors 
were  shut  to  by  a  man  standing  near  by,  and  in  the 
utmost  silence,  they  drove  away.  Where  they  went, 
I  haven't  the  least  idea. 

Scarcely  a  word  was  spoken,  but  men  and  women 
looked  at  one  another,  and  in  a  few  minutes  there 
were  no  signs  of  the  mass  of  people  that  had  been 
congregated  there. 

We  looked  at  each  other,  then  walked  leisurely 
back  to  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  and — plunged  into  the 
fourth  mob  of  the  afternoon!  Each  and  every  one 
was  talking.  We  could  understand  enough  to  know 
that  they  were  talking  of  the  nuns  that  we  had  just 
seen  leaving  Saint  Roch. 

We  soon  reached  the  Metropolitan,  and  in  a  very 
few  moments  were  at  home,  relating  our  exciting  ex- 
periences. Madame  raised  her  eyebrows  and 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  but  said  nothing  beyond  a 
"Mon  Dieu!"  However,  next  morning,  for  the  first 
time  since  I  had  been  in  the  house,  she  went  to  early 
mass.     As  the  author  of  "Les  Miserables"  says: 

We  do  not  understand  all  we  see,  but  we  do  not  scorn.  Con- 
verts offer  a  complex  question:  civilization  condemns  them,  in- 
dividual  freedom   protects   them. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  know  very  little  about  this 
matter,  but  state  such  facts  and  circumstances  as  I 


2,8o  PARIS 

was  able  to  observe  and  note  at  the  time.  "When 
one  understands  that  France  helps  to  maintain,  not 
alone  the  Roman  Church,  but  also  the  Protestant, 
the  Jewish,  as  well  as  the  Mohammedan  (in  Al- 
geria) one  cannot  fail  to  see  that  the  Church  prob- 
lem in  France  is  not  without  considerable  proportion. 
It  has  no  State  Church  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word, 
although,  undoubtedly,  the  larger  number  of  its  in- 
habitants are  members  of  the  Church  of  Rome." 

The  next  afternoon  we  were  prowling  about  in  the 
Boulevard  Saint  Germain.  Upon  reaching  the 
Boulevard  Raspail,  we  halted.  There  were  several 
men  standing  at  the  intersection  of  the  two  boule- 
vards, talking  together,  and  along  came  two  priests 
in  their  long  black  soutanes  and  little  round  plush 
hats.  At  once  the  men  took  off  their  hats  in  a  re- 
spectful manner,  and  crowded  up  close  around  the 
priests.  What  they  said,  of  course,  I  do  not  know; 
I  only  know  that  the  men  stood  there  on  the  side- 
walk, that  the  priests  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and, 
after  conversing  for  a  moment,  passed  on,  the  men 
standing  respectfully  aside;  and,  until  we  turned  an 
angle  in  the  boulevard,  we  could  see  them  walking 
quietly  along,  the  men  standing  there,  scarcely  mov- 
ing, looking  after  them.  Undoubtedly,  the  masses 
are  still  sincerely  attached  to  the  Catholic  faith, — 
to  the  Church  of  Rome. 

The  Church  of  Saint  Roch  seems  always  to  loom 
up  big  in  everything  that  happens  in  Paris.  History 
seems  to  circle  around  it. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  281 

Saint  Roch  played  a  sinister  role  during  the  Revolution.  As  the 
tumbrils  containing  the  victims  to  be  executed  at  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde  nearly  always  came  from  the  prisons  by  way  of  the  Rue 
Saint  Honore,  the  steps  and  portico  of  Saint  Roch  were  among 
the  chief  points  at  which  the  mob  gathered  to  cast  insults  and 
filth  on  the  unfortunate  captives.  A  woman  of  the  people  stood 
in  the  portico  of  this  church  as  the  tumbril  with  Queen  Marie 
Antoinette  slowly  passed  (October  16,  1793),  and  spitting  into  her 
hand,  cast  the  saliva  on  the  queen:  an  incident  that  caused  Marie 
Antoinette  to  lose  for  a  moment  her  heroic  demeanor  of  contempt. 
"This  vile  mob!"  she  exclaimed,  turning  her  back  on  her  in- 
sulter. 

It  was  also  from  the  steps  of  this  church  that  Na- 
poleon fired  his  "whiff  of  grapeshot,"  the  marks  of 
which  are  still  to  be  seen  on  the  pillars  and  front  of 
the  building,  as  all  the  guide  books  tell  us.  Here, 
too,  we  saw  the  little  company  of  nuns  leaving  the 
sanctuary  a  few  days  ago. 

The  music,  too,  at  this  church  is  especially  fine, 
and  the  services  accompanied  by  all  the  ecclesiastical 
magnificence  at  the  command  of  Rome.  In  speaking 
of  this,  one  writer  says:  "It  seems  that  the  con- 
gregation do  not  always  refrain  from  applauding,  as 
if  in  a  concert-hall,  any  particularly  fine  rendering!" 

Sieverts-Drewett  says: 

The  writer  remembers  on  one  occasion  being  present  at  Saint 
Roch  to  hear  a  new  mass  by  Gounod  performed.  It  was  a  Sun- 
day evening,  and  the  great  composer  himself  conducted.  After 
the  performance — which  was  a  grand  one  indeed — M.  Gounod  was 
led  down  the  central  aisle  by  a  procession  of  priests  and  the  choir, 
amid  enthusiasm  that  could  not  be  suppressed,  and  which,  strangely 
enough,  did  not  at  the  time  seem  out  of  place. 

I  liked  the  manner  of  the  choir  service.  The  sing- 
ers stood  around  the  great  lectern  in  the  chancel, 
instead  of  remaining  in  the  stalls  during  the  service, 


282  PARIS 

and  this  seemed  in  such  complete  harmony  with  the 
beautiful  stained  glass  windows,  the  mysterious  yel- 
lowish light  flooding  the  great  spaces,  the  candle- 
lighted  side  chapels  and  high  altar,  the  statues  gleam- 
ing white  through  the  clouds  of  smoking  incense,  and 
the  rich  paintings,  that  one  could  not  suppress  a  glow 
of  pleasurable  satisfaction. 

The  grouping  of  the  men  and  boys,  in  their  picturesque  costumes 
of  red  cassocks,  white  albs,  and  blue  or  red  sashes,  grouped  around 
the  lectern,  gives  the  whole  affair  such  a  delightful  old-world 
appearance  that  it  is  most  refreshing,  and  the  effect  of  the  huge 
service-book,  with  its  plain  song  notation  up  above  the  heads  of 
the  boys,  takes  one  back  hundreds  of  years. 

That  is  true,  so  long  as  we  keep  our  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  singers.  But  let  the  eyes  wander  for  an 
instant,  and  we  drop  back  into  the  present  by  the 
rustle  of  the  magnificent  dresses  of  the  present-day 
worshipers. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

FRENCH  HOSPITALITY.      CHATOU 

All  of  a  sudden  my  prowls  and  rambles  took,  on 
quite  another  character;  my  life  was  tossed  into  an- 
other current;  my  environment  was  changed,  and  my 
temperament  began  to  vibrate  to  an  entirely  new  set 
of  instruments. 

One  afternoon  I  took  a  carriage  and  went  away 
out  into  the  suburbs  to  present  a  letter  of  introduc- 
tion, which  had  been  given  to  me  by  a  relative  during 
my  late  visit  to  America. 

We  went  out  a  very  long  distance,  passing  the 
barriers,  out  into  the  Rue  de  Paris  to  Charenton. 
The  street  running  along  the  Bois  de  Vincennes  was 
beautiful,  the  magnificent  trees  casting  long  black 
shadows  over  the  roadway. 

At  last,  in  a  small  shadowy  thoroughfare  just  off 
the  Rue  de  Paris,  I  found  the  place  I  was  seeking, — 
a  gray  stone  house,  two  stories  high,  with  a  sloping 
roof,  the  windows  heavily  outlined  in  a  lighter  col- 
ored stone;  an  old  stone  wall,  covered  with  creeping 
vines,  behind  which  was  a  trimmed  hedge  of  green, 
surrounded  the  garden  of  the  house;  a  black  iron 
gate  tipped  with  gilded  arrows  stood  in  the  wall, 
directly  opposite  to  the  front  entrance  of  the  house, 

283 


284  PARIS 

and  through  which  one  might  peep  into  the  garden 
which  he  might  not  enter. 

It  was  a  quiet  home,  in  a  street  of  homes;  there 
were  no  shops  in  sight;  there  was  no  poverty  in  sight; 
all  seemed  as  serene  as  the  summer  day.  Great  trees 
could  be  seen  at  the  rear  of  all  the  houses  in  the 
vicinity;  high  walls  and  iron  gates  in  front  of  them. 

The  coachman  climbed  down  from  his  high  seat 
and  went  to  the  black  iron  gate,  with  its  gilded  ar- 
rows, and  rang  a  bell,  which  I  should  never  have 
discovered  had  I  been  alone.  At  my  exclamation  of 
surprise  at  the  idea  of  ringing  a  bell  at  the  gateway, 
he  was  so  amused  that  he  rang  it  again;  and  I  sat 
still  to  see  what  would  happen  next. 

In  just  a  moment  a  maid  dressed  in  a  black  frock, 
a  white  apron,  and  a  gay  cap  perched  on  her  smooth 
blond  hair  (this  French  girl  was  a  blond  of  the  purest 
type),  came  running  from  the  back  of  the  house  to 
open  the  gate,  two  rows  of  very  white  teeth  and  a 
series  of  most  animated  gestures  demonstrating  how 
welcome  a  visitor,  perhaps,  might  be.  I  at  once 
gauged  the  mistress  by  the  maid. 

I  told  my  coachman  to  wait,  that  I  would  return 
in  a  few  minutes.  The  maid  led  the  way  into  a 
rather  large  hallway,  then  into  a  long,  stately  room, 
with  a  number  of  huge  mirrors,  which  had  been 
built  into  the  walls,  extending  the  entire  height  of 
the  room, — then  disappeared  with  my  letter  and 
card. 

In  a  very  few  moments,  my  hostess  came  in.  She 
had  never  seen  me  in  her  life,  but  she  threw  her 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  285 

arms  around  me  and  kissed  me,  first  on  one  cheek, 
then  the  other.  Had  I  been  some  dear  friend,  it 
does  not  seem  possible  that  she  could  have  exhibited 
more  pleasure  at  my  arrival.  She  called  to  her  hus- 
band, and,  for  just  a  second,  I  thought  he  was 
going  to  repeat  the  operation.  Two  kindly  people, 
delightful  to  meet  and  know. 

Go  back  to  Paris  in  that  carriage  waiting  out  in 

front  of  the  garden?     Never!      Monsieur  O 

threw  up  his  hands,  rolled  his  blue  eyes,  and  with  a 
wave  of  his  hand,  dismissed  the  whole  subject.  They 
at  once  ordered  wine  to  be  served,  with  a  curious 
kind  of  sweet  cake,  entirely  different  from  any  I  had 
yet  encountered,  and  some  fruit.  After  a  while,  in 
spite  of  protestations,  I  began  to  feel  as  though  I 
should  follow  the  advice  of  Mrs.  Ruggles,  and  say, 
"I  guess  I  better  be  a-goin',"  but  they  stopped  me 
at  once,  said  that  I  should  not  go,  that  I  was  going 
to  remain  with  them!  Not  a  word  would  they  listen 
to;  not  a  remonstrance  could  I  make  that  they  would 
heed.  They  dismissed  the  waiting  coachman,  and 
after  a  while,  the  three  of  us  were  whizzing  along 
in  a  gasoline  carriage,  on  the  road  to  Paris.  They 
returned  with  me  to  the  Pension  Francois,  and  re- 
mained until  I  had  packed  up  all  my  goods. 

For  three  months  I  remained  with  my  charming 
host  and  hostess  in  that  lovely  old  house  with  its 
square,  walled-in  garden  and  old-world  atmosphere. 

My  kind  host  and  hostess  at  the  Pension  made  me 
promise  that  I  would  return  to  them  at  the  con- 
clusion of  my  visit,  but  alas!  before  another  month 


286  PARIS 

had  passed,  they  sold  it  and  moved  to  Chatou,  a 
beautiful  little  riverside  town  about  half  an  hour 
by  train  from  Paris.  The  guests  scattered  in  all  di- 
rections, and  not  one  of  those  blessed  people  have  I 
ever  seen  since,  with  the  exception  of  the  family  it- 
self. 

Of  all  the  places  near  Paris,  I  believe  I  liked  this 
dear  little  town  the  best — perhaps  because  of  asso- 
ciations; Chatou,  to  me,  meant  the  family  Francois. 

Madame  and  Monsieur  Franqais  insisted,  in  terms 
of  such  affection,  upon  our  visiting  them  in  their 
new  home  that  Miss  Ahnrate  and  I  gladly  accepted 
the  invitation  for  a  week,  later  on  in  the  summer. 

Their  house  was  an  old  one,  with  a  slanting  roof 
and  dormer  windows  with  heavy  hoods  over  the 
tops.  The  house  sat  even  with  the  street  line;  in 
the  rear,  and  at  one  side,  was  a  large  garden,  sur- 
rounded by  a  wall  at  least  eighteen  to  twenty  feet 
high,  which  connected  even  with  the  house  in  front, 
forming  a  long  street  line. 

In  this  sweet  old  garden  there  were  beds  of  flow-: 
ers  and  tall  trees,  intersected  by  graveled  walks. 
We  took  luncheon  and  dinner  out  of  doors,  under 
the  trees.  This  secluded  garden  seemed  a  thousand 
miles  from  Paris;  no  noise  of  the  city  reached  us 
here,  and  we  would  sit  there  under  the  trees,  and 
read  and  visit  and  do  fancywork,  disturbed  by  no 
sound  more  distracting  than  that  which  came  from 
rowing  parties  out  on  the  river,  which  flowed  along 
only  a  few  yards  from  our  doorway. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  287 

This  home  of  the  Franc,ais  family  was  really  the 
most  enjoyable  dwelling-house  I  was  ever  in.  It 
was  unpretentious,  but  the  feeling  of  "home"  was 
so  strongly  felt  that  all  else  seemed  to  be  of  slight 
importance.  They  were  all  so  gay;  in  fact,  all  the 
happiness  and  sense  of  home  of  this  household 
seemed  to  be  due  to  the  gayety  which  seems  to  be  so 
strongly  developed  in  the  French  character,  and 
which  is  always  so  actively  displayed.  Even  the  wee 
poodle,  shorn  like  a  lion,  seemed  to  enter  into  the 
home  spirit  that  pervaded  everything. 

The  little  "Maman"  was  so  delighted  to  have  us! 
She  would  sit  with  us  in  the  garden  and  tell  stories 
of  her  girlhood  home  in  Alsace-Lorraine  by  the  hour, 
to  all  of  which  I  was  glad  to  listen  because  she  was 
a  woman  of  great  intelligence  and  understood  so 
well  the  conditions  and  circumstances  of  which  she 
spoke. 

Twice  we  went  for  a  row  upon  the  river  in  the 
soft  evening  light.  Every  one  here  owns  a  row- 
boat,  and  rowing  is  the  real  amusement  of  the  towns- 
people, most  of  whom  go  into  Paris  for  business, 
returning  in  the  evening — nearly  all  of  them  being 
"Commuters." 

I  believe  most  of  the  houses  here  have  their  own 
private  gardens.  A  walled-in  garden  is  one  of  the 
most  delightful  things  in  the  world;  one  can  go 
about  just  as  he  pleases,  in  a  kimono  or  otherwise, 
and  not  a  soul  will  ever  know;  no  one  can  take  you 
unawares,  for  the  bell  must  announce  a  visitor  be- 


288  PARIS 

fore  he  can  gain  admittance;  and  if  one  does  not 
desire  visitors,  all  he  has  to  do  is  to  keep  still. 

It  was  with  sadness  that  I  said  adieu  to  my  kind 
host  and  hostess,  and  to  lovely  little  Chatou.  They 
are  so  far  from  America. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

LIFE  IN  A  FRENCH   HOME.  CHURCH  AFFAIRS.  CHAR- 

ENTON.     THE  BOIS  DE  VINCENNES. 

CHOOSING  A  GOWN 

For  several  days  after  my  advent  into  the  agree- 
able household  of  Monsieur  and   Madam  O , 

we  just  lounged  about,  chatting,  reading  a  little,  and 
eating  often.  Each  had  breakfast  in  his  own  room. 
We  did  not  meet  until  after  our  savagery  had  been 
subdued,  that  is,  along  about  eleven  o'clock. 

The  habit  of  having  one's  breakfast  in  his  own 
room  is  a  very  sensible  one,  to  my  mind,  as  all  of 
us  are  savages  on  first  awaking  in  the  morning;  peo- 
ple ought  never  to  meet  until  the  late  hours  of  morn- 
ing, when  all  are  in  an  amiable  frame  of  mind. 

In  the  rear  garden  was  a  pergola  covered  with 
thick  vines,  in  the  interior  of  which  was  a  table, 
chairs,  and  a  settee  with  an  abundant  supply  of  pil- 
lows. Here  we  had  luncheon  and  dinner,  and  here 
we  sat  to  read  and  work,  and  gossip.  Monsieur 
would  return   from  the   city  at  about   four  o'clock 

each  afternoon,  when  Madam  O would  serve 

hot  coffee  (no  tea),  varied  sometimes  by  wine  and 
cake.  He  would  then  relate  the  news  of  the  day: 
all  the  little  tittle-tattle  of  the  city;  bits  of  gossip  in 

289 


290  PARIS 

the  social  world;  theatrical  news,  scandal  and  poli- 
tics; smoke  a  cigar,  and  then  would  follow  the 
daily  ride  in  the  machine.  One  day  was  a  repetition 
of  the  other,  but  of  their  sameness  I  seemed  never 
to  tire.     Change  and  excitement  are  not  everything. 

These  old  walled-in  gardens  are  delightful  to  the 
ones  on  the  inside ;  nobody  can  see  in  from  the  out- 
side, and  no  one  can  enter  unless  he  first  rings  the 
bell.  The  privacy  is  charming.  The  Grand  Hotel 
and  the  pension  on  the  Rue  de  Longchamps  seemed 
ages  removed  from  this  quiet,  old-world  place  on  the 
outskirts  of  Paris! 

The  French  undoubtedly  differ  very  materially 
from  us  in  their  social  system  and  their  entire  stand- 
ard of  living,  and  life  in  a  French  home  is  quite 
different  from  life  in  an  American  home.  One  is  just 
as  charming  and  delightful  as  the  other,  but  in  a 
different  way. 

The  French  woman  of  ordinary  means,  such  as 
my  hostess,  does  not  rummage  around  the  market, 
pricing  this  and  tasting  that;  she  sends  the  cook. 
The  cooks  seem  to  do  all  the  purchasing  for  the 
kitchen;  the  housewife  goes  only  at  intervals, — 
perhaps,  just  to  keep  track  of  the  real  current  values 
of  commodities. 

A  French  woman  absolutely  refuses  to  go  into 
the  street  without  gloves.  But  when  you  can  buy 
them  for  thirty  cents  and  have  them  cleaned  for  two 
cents,  one  can  better  understand  that. 

Sometimes  I  would  accompany  my  hostess  to  early 
mass  (she  was  very  devout)   and  on  the  way  back, 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  291 

we  would  stop  at  a  most  delightful  open-air  mar- 
ket, where  I  purchased  so  many  tags  and  ends  of 
unheard-of  things  that  I  scarcely  had  room  left  for 
my  clothes. 

Again     referring    to     the     church    controversy: 

Madam  O told  me  that  the  churches  had  never, 

in  all  their  history,  been  so  crowded  as  they  now 
were — that  every  Catholic  in  France  would  sup- 
port the  church  as  against  the  governmental  edict; 
said  that  for  years  she  had  neglected  the  early 
mass,  but,  that  now  she  would  get  up  with  the  birds 
and  go  every  morning. 

I  know  very  little  of  these  matters;  but  I  do  know 
that  on  each  occasion  that  I  attended  the  church  in 
Charenton,  it  was  filled  with  the  apparently  devout. 
The  market  women  would  leave  some  one  in  charge 
of  their  stalls,  and  go  into  church,  which,  I  was  told, 
was  something  that  most  of  them  had  failed  to  do 
before  the  beginning  of  the  disturbance. 

There  are  beautiful  walks  all  about  Charenton. 
On  one  side  there  is  the  river, — the  Seine;  on  the 
other  there  is  the  Bois  de  Vincennes,  with  its  miles 
and  miles  of  trees  and  roads  and  bypaths.  Sad  to 
say,  however,  at  one  end  of  the  town,  is  the  insane 
asylum,  which,  during  the  time  of  the  Reign  of 
Terror,  was  a  very  grewsome  place.  At  the  other 
end  are  the  fortifications.  There  are  many  attrac- 
tions from  which  to  choose. 

Often  we  would  take  our  lace  work  and  go  over 
to  the  Bois  to  sit  under  the  trees  and  amuse  our- 
selves by  looking  on  at  the  innumerable  wedding- 


292  PARIS 

parties  that  were  invariably  to  be  seen  driving  about 
the  woods, — the  bride  with  her  wedding  finery  still 
on,  her  white  veil  tossed  back  from  her  face,  a 
huge  bouquet  of  flowers  in  her  lap.  Weddings  gen- 
erally occurring  at  mass  in  the  morning,  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day  is  spent  in  driving  about  the 
great  parks,  under  the  trees,  and  in  eating  and 
drinking  at  the  restaurants  and  cafes  that  seem  to 
abound  everywhere.  Sometimes,  there  would  be  as 
many  as  five  or  six  carriages  filled  with  the  wedding 
party,  all  laughing  and  talking,  and  I  would  look 
at  them  all  and  indulge  in  speculations  as  to  their 
probable  cost;  as  I  presume  the  bride's  family  pays 
for  all  the  day's  enjoyments. 
Miss  Betham-Edwards  says: 

Church  ceremonials  are  very  expensive  affairs  in  France,  wed- 
dings, like  funerals,  being  charged  for  according  to  the  style. 

Those  of  the  first  and  second  class  entitle  the  procession  to 
entry  by  the  front  door  of  cathedral  or  church,  to  more  or  less 
music  by  full  orchestra,  and  to  carpets  laid  down  from  porch  to 
altar.  Wedding  parties  of  the  third  division  go  in  by  a  side  en- 
trance, and  without  music  or  carpet,  traverse  the  aisle,  the  charges 
even  so  diminished  being  considerable. 

I  must  say  that  were  I  a  French  bride-elect,  I  should  bargain 
for  a  wedding  of  the  first  class  at  any  sacrifice.  To  have  the 
portal  of  a  cathedral  thrown  wide  at  the  thrice-repeated  knock  of 
the  beadle's  staff,  to  hear  the  wedding  march  from  "Lohengrin" 
peeled  from  the  great  organ,  to  reach  the  altar  preceded  by  that 
gorgeous  figure  in  cocked  hat,  red  sash,  plush  tights,  pink  silk 
stockings,  and  silver-buckled  shoes,  all  the  congregation  a-titter 
wi  h  admiration — surely  the  intoxication  of  such  a  moment  were 
unrivaled ! 

The  strictest  etiquette  regulates  every  part  of  the  proceedings. 
Accommodated  with  velvet  arm-chairs,  the  bride's  parents  and  re- 
lations are  placed,  according  to  degrees  of  consanguinity,  immedi- 
ately behind  her  prie-dieu ;  the  bridegroom's  family,  arranged  with 
similar  punctiliousness,  having  seats  on  the  other  side  of  the 
nave.  .  .  . 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  293 

Churches  in  France  are  not  always  decorated  with  palms  and 
flowers  as  with  ourselves.  Any  additional  expense  would  indeed 
be  the  last  straw  breaking  the  camel's  back,  rendering  weddings 
a  veritable  corvee.  But  the  high  altar  blazes  with  tapers,  and 
floral  gifts,  natural  and  in  paper  or  wax,  adorn  the  chapels  of  the 
Virgin  or  patron  saint. 

So,  I  looked  at  all  wedding  parties  with  interest, 
but  could  not  refrain  from  speculating  a  little  on  the 
probable  cost  of  each  one  of  them.  The  excessive 
cost  of  marriage  in  France  does  not  seem  to  dampen 
the  ardor  of  the  people,  however,  for  these  wedding 
parties  are  to  be  seen  every  day,  sometimes  a  large 
number  of  them. 

Occasionally  we,  too,  would  go  into  one  of  these 
small  cafes  in  the  Bois,  and  have  our  afternoon  tea, 
or  coffee,  while  keeping  our  eyes  on  some  wedding 
party.  Imagine !  I  was  told  that  until  the  age  of 
sixty,  a  person  must  have  his  parents'  consent  to  a 
marriage  (if  they  be  living),  and  if  dead,  he  must 
show  their  certificate  of  death  !    Again, — imagine  it! 

At  the  edge  of  the  Bois  are  the  fortifications;  and 
sometimes  we  would  wander  close  enough  to  them  to 
see  the  soldiers  at  drill,  while  from  far  off,  through 
the  quiet  of  the  Bois,  could  be  heard  that  strange, 
weird  melody  to  which  the  soldiers  of  France  per- 
form their  evolutions. 

Across  the  Bois,  on  the  far  side,  is  the  old  chateau 
of  Vincennes,  which  to-day  is  used  as  a  military  fort- 
ress. One  may  not  inspect  the  interior,  for  strangers 
are  rarely  admitted, — most  certainly  not  lone  wom- 
en. 

This  place,  too,  has  its  phantoms.     Here  it  was 


294  PARIS 

that  Charles  IX.,  whose  royal  edict  brought  forth 
the  bloody  night  of  Saint  Bartholomew  in  1572,  fell 
sick  two  years  later.  .  .  .  Calling  his  surgeon,  Am- 
broise  Pare,  to  his  side,  he  exclaimed:  "My  body 
burns  with  fever;  I  see  the  mangled  Huguenots  all 
about  me ;  Holy  Virgin,  how  they  mock  me  !  I  wish, 
Pare,  I  had  spared  them!'  And  thus  he  died,  abhor- 
ring the  mother  who  had  counseled  him  to  commit 
this  horrible  deed."  One  can  well  imagine  that 
phantoms  might  walk  behind  these  thick,  somber- 
looking  walls. 

I  had  a  real  affection  for  the  Bois  de  Vincennes, 
though  it  was  a  very  unfashionable  place — the  very 
antithesis  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  lying  far  away, 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  City,  so  far  as  fashion- 
able life  was  concerned.  So  far  as  natural  beauty  is 
concerned,  there  is  very  little  difference.  There  are 
several  lovely  lakes  here,  also,  one  of  which  covers 
over  fifty  acres,  and  in  its  center  is  an  island,  upon 
which  is  a  cafe.  Here  we  would  all  go  sometimes 
and  have  coffee  and  watch  the  many  boating  parties, 
or  have  a  row  ourselves  in  the  cool  of  the  evening. 

I  decided  one  day,  that  I  wanted  a  new  gown,  and 

Monsieur  as  well  as  Madam  O accompanied  me 

to  an  establishment  on  the  Boulevard  Haussman. 
There  were  no  shop  windows,  there  was  no  display 
of  any  kind  whatever  whereby  one  might  know  that 
this  was  an  establishment  of  any  sort.  It  looked 
simply  like  an  ordinary  home  of  some  person  of 
ample  means. 

We  rang  a  bell,  and  the  door  was  opened  by  the 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  295 

concierge.  We  then  entered  into  a  large  court,  and 
after  passing  through  a  doorway  into  a  large  hall- 
like room,  we  ascended  to  the  second  floor,  where 
we  found  what  we  were  looking  for. 

A  very  magnificent  woman,  gowned  in  black, 
greeted  us,  and  after  I  had  explained  what  I  desired, 
she  asked  us  to  be  seated.  This  was  in  a  large  room, 
probably  fifty  feet  long  and  very  wide.  Across  the 
front  portion  was  spread  a  brilliant  red  carpet.  In 
a  few  minutes,  a  beautiful  young  woman  came  in, 
looking  regal  in  the  stunning  gown  she  wore.  She 
slowly  paced  across  the  floor,  the  train  of  the  gown 
trailing  over  the  red  carpet.  She  was  fair  and  had 
golden  hair, — she  was  beautiful.  She  then,  at  a 
word  from  Madame,  disappeared. 

In  a  few  moments  she  returned,  attired  in  an- 
other bewildering  "creation"  (that  is  what  Madam 
called  it),  and  again  paced  the  floor.  But  I  could 
not  bear  it — to  see  this  beautiful  young  girl,  so  deli- 
cate looking,  pace  back  and  forth  just  for  us  to  see 
how  the  gown  looked.  I  felt  that  I  would  rather 
look  at  fashion  plates  on  paper.  O,  Mr.  But- 
terick!  However,  if  we  all  felt  so  sympathetic  about 
it,  these  poor  girls  might  find  themselves  without  em- 
ployment. They  are  called  "mannequins,"  and  I 
understand  that  they  work  in  this  way  from  nine  in 
the  morning  till  seven  at  night,  and  that  their  sala- 
ries are  very  small.  However,  I  only  state  this  from 
hearsay,  as  I  do  not  know  what  they  earn. 

I  was  also  told  that  these  girls  are  often  decked 
out  in  most  magnificent  attire,  and  sent  out  to  drive 


296  PARIS 

about  in  the  Bois,  so  as  to  display  the  newest  fash- 
ions. So,  perhaps,  some  of  the  beautiful  women 
whom  I  so  much  admire  are  mannequins,  as  none 
but  beautiful  women  are  selected  for  this  work. 
Whether  the  "creation"  will  look  so  well  upon  the 
purchaser,  depends  altogether  upon  who  the  pur- 
chaser is. 

I  found  the  prices  of  gowns  reasonable.  I  had 
heard  so  much  of  the  extravagant  prices  extorted 
from  strangers,  especially  from  my  own  country- 
women, that  I  was  surprised  to  find  them  so  reason- 
able,— in  fact,  the  prices  were  much  less  than  I 
should  have  had  to  pay  in  either  New  York  or  Chi- 
cago for  the  same  gown.  Perhaps  it  was  because 
of  my  French  companions?     I  do  not  know. 

In  fact,  I  found  many  articles  of  clothing  extremely 
cheap  in  Paris.  Handmade  lingerie  was  cheap;  so 
were  silk  petticoats;  so  were  hats  and  bonnets  of 
all  descriptions;  so  were  gowns  and  wraps  of 
all  kinds.  I  am  not  surprised  that  women  go  shop- 
ping with  such  diligence  in  Paris;  for  there  a  very 
little  money  goes  a  long  ways. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  GRAND  OPERA.      LE  THEATRE   FRANCAIS 

At  last !  We  were  to  go  to  the  Grand  Opera ! 
I  had  been  for  nearly  a  year  in  Paris,  and  had  as  yet 
seen  only  its  exterior.  Not  to  mention  it  seems  in- 
vidious; to  mention  it  seems  banal — all  has  been  said 
of  it  that  can  be  said,  perhaps.  "One  of  the  most 
animated  polemics  of  modern  criticism  has  raged 
around  this  work." 

We  had  seats  just  beyond  the  orchestra, — excel- 
lent seats;  and  I  did  nothing  but  gape:  at  the  orches- 
tra, at  the  stage,  at  the  audience.  Society,  spelled 
with  a  capital,  was  there — Americans,  English, 
French, — throwing  over  the  glorious  place  the  ra- 
diance of  its  reflected  scintillations.  And,  really,  the 
pleasure  of  watching  the  people  arrive,  find  their 
seats,  and  salute  one  another  is  not  among  the  small- 
est of  the  attractions  to  a  foreigner.  It  is  all  new 
and  intensely  interesting,  the  opera  itself  being  the 
least  attraction  of  all. 

Upon  this  occasion  the  opera  was  "Salambo." 
But  all  I  could  think  of,  was  that  poem  by  Owen 
Meredith,  "Aux  Italiens."  Of  course,  this  is  not  the 
opera  house  of  which  he  spoke,  but  the  arrangement 

297 


298  PARIS 

of  the  boxes  is  probably  about  the  same.  When  I 
was  passing  through  the  "elocutionary  fever,"  which 
most  young  girls  pass  through,  it  was  this  poem  of 
Meredith's  that  excited  all  my  most  ardent  endeav- 
ors, but  every  time  I  tried  to  recite,  "She  was  sitting 
there,  in  a  dim  box  over  the  stage,"  my  eyes  would 
waver;  I  was  vaguely  aware  that  something  was 
wrong.  I  could  not  locate  a  "box  over  the  stage," — 
for  how  could  that  be?  We  did  not  have  them, 
consequently  I  could  not  conjure  up  the  picture;  so 
I  would  lose  my  point,  and  the  recitation  would  fall 
flat.  Not  being  clear  myself,  I  could  not  make  it 
clear  to  others. 

So  there  I  sat  for  a  time,  looking  at  the  tiers  of 
boxes  "over  the  stage."  When  the  curtains  are  low- 
ered, the  persons  sitting  there  cannot  see  the  audience 
at  all.  I  located  the  "dim  box"  exactly, — but  alas ! — 
there  is  no  longer  any  "call."  However,  it  was  a 
satisfaction  to  me  to  find  the  difficulty  disposed  of, 
and  to  know  that  there  were  boxes  practically  over 
the  stage.  The  opera  was  well  on  its  way  before 
I  finally  recalled  myself. 

I  saw  one  thing  that  seemed  strange  to  me,  and 
even  yet  I  am  not  positive  about  it,  as  the  eyes  play 
strange  tricks  sometimes. 

"The  great  ballets  of  the  French  stage  are  only 
less  elaborate  in  structure  and  invention  than  the 
great  operas  and  the  great  plays,  and  they  are  often 
infinitely  more  splendid  in  the  mounting,"  says  a  cer- 
tain author;  adding  that  "good  taste  may  have  for- 
saken   the    Tribune    of    Parliament    and   the    Law 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  299 

Courts,  but  it  is  still  preserved  as  a  living  force  on 
the  stage." 

The  ballet  in  this  instance  was  undeniably  all  that 
any  Frenchman  could  claim  for  it:  it  was  superb !  It 
was  led  by  a  most  wonderful  danseuse,  with  the  taw- 
niest hair  I  have  ever  seen.  The  opera  itself  was 
almost  completely  lost  sight  of  in  the  magnificence  of 
the  ballet. 

After  the  usual  evolutions,  twistings,  turnings  and 
posings,  the  whole  company  parted  and  spread  itself 
in  a  semicircle  on  each  side  of  the  stage.  In  a  mo- 
ment, the  great  curtains  at  the  back  of  the  stage 
parted,  very  slowly,  and  there  emerged  an  appari- 
tion— a  magnificent  creature,  in  a  cloak  or  mantle  of 
brocaded  cloth  of  gold,  bordered  with  fur  or  swans- 
down  of  the  purest  white,  and  tiny  gilded  slippers 
that  barely  peeped  out  the  least  bit  as  she  slowly  ad- 
vanced to  the  front  of  the  stage,  to  low,  soft  music, 
her  long  train  supported  by  four  little  cherubs  of 
boys. 

When  she  reached  the  footlights,  she  very  slowly 
and  deliberately  loosened  the  fastenings  of  her  man- 
tle, two  girls  from  the  front  end  of  the  ballet  assist- 
ing at  the  solemnities,  and  dropped  it  into  the  wait- 
ing arms  of  the  cherubs.     I  nearly  gasped! 

"The  human  form  is  divine,"  'tis  said;  and  to  tear 
aside  the  curtains  of  the  Holy  of  Holies  and  thrust 
"divinity"  into  the  faces  of  mere  mortals — into  the 
waiting,  expectant  faces  of  an  unprepared,  unsuspect- 
ing audience,  is,  to  say  next  to  nothing,  a  wee  bit 
disconcerting. 


300  PARIS 

Her  form  was  faultless,  without  doubt;  but  even 
so,  she  might  have  left  a  little  to  our  imagination.  I 
timidly  suggested, — but,  no  matter — every  one 
knows  about  what  I  said.  Not  a  bit  of  it!  Indeed 
and  indeed!  They,  my  friends,  were  almost  on  the 
verge  of  tears  at  the  mere  suggestion.  "Horrible! 
Why  should  she — wear  tights?  Mon  Dieu !  Ridic- 
ulous !     Why,  it  would  mar" — and  so  on. 

A  statue  come  to  life,  wheeling  and  circling  about 
the  stage  on  the  tips  of  its  toes,  a  bunch  of  glittering 
diamonds  and  a  huge  aigrette  in  its  raven  hair,  a 
sparkling,  gleaming  "dog  collar"  of  diamonds 
around  its  snowy  neck,  gilded  slippers  on  its  two 
little  feet,  a  very  small,  non-concealing,  bejeweled 
"Brunhilde"  arrangement  over  its  breasts,  and  a 
gorgeous  bejeweled  snake  of  a  girdle  around  its 
waist,  head  and  tail  forming  a  long,  drooping  Egyp- 
tian-like pendant  in  front,  would  come  closer  to  tell- 
ing the  story  of  what  made  me  nearly  gasp  than 
anything  else  possibly  could.  One  did  not  think  of 
this  premiere  danseuse  as  a  human  being;  this  was 
an  animated  statue  from  the  Louvre.  "Art"  per- 
haps should  not  be  hampered  by  any  such  small  con- 
sideration as  dress. 

Americans  tell  me  that  I  was  surely  mistaken.  My 
French  friends  speak  as  though  disgusted  that  any- 
one should  dream  for  a  moment  that  that  wonderful 
danseuse  should  be  obliged  to  wear  clothing.  No 
matter!  The  performance  was  most  beautiful,  and 
perhaps  we  Americans  and  our  English  cousins  were 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  301 

the  only  ones  who  felt  a  little  bit  uncomfortable  and 
unduly  virtuous. 

As  there  was  no  music  between  the  acts,  we  went 
out  into  that  wonderful  foyer,  and  promenaded  with, 
I  imagine,  every  one  else  in  the  house. 

We  are  so  fond  of  saying,  "Oh!"  and  "Ah!"  but 
who  could  find  it  in  his  heart  to  censure  a  person 
who  is  looking  upon  that  Arabian  Night's  Dream  of 
a  staircase  for  the  first  time? 

Mr.  Hamerton  says : 

It  is  full  of  dazzling  light;   it  comes  on  the  sight  as  a  burst  of 
brilliant   and  triumphant  music  on  the  ear. 

All  has  been  said;  nothing  remains  to  be  added  ex- 
cept that  it  was  all  exactly  as  pictured,  and  I  walked 
up  both  sides  to  be  sure  that  I  had  seen  it  all.  I 
wonder  if  its  beauties  ever  become  commonplace  to 
those  who  constantly  have  the  opportunity  to  view 
them.  I  went  to  the  opera  many  times,  but  never 
once  did  I  fail  to  enjoy  this  wonderful  creation  of 
stone,  marble,  gilding,  and  paintings. 

Monsieur  P ,  a  director  of  the  Theatre  Fran- 

cais,  was  a  friend,  who,  with  his  family,  was  a  con- 
stant visitor  at  the  home  of  the  family  with  whom  I 
was  staying;  and,  after  the  opera  he  joined  us  at  the 
Cafe  de  Paris,  not  far  from  the  Opera  House. 

He  was  a  man  of  rare  talent  and  commanding  abil- 
ity, but,  with  it  all,  was  most  kindly  and  suavely  dip- 
lomatic,— never  did  he  give  offense  nor  take  it. 
He  greeted  all  sorts  of  remarks  with  a  smiling  face. 
He  had  eyes — such  eyes!  and  he  rolled  them  about 


302  PARIS    • 

in  a  way  that  a  man  who  might  be  trying  to  create 
an  effect  would  not  dare  to  do,  and  lifted  one  shoul- 
der just  a  little  higher  than  the  other  when  emphatic. 
He  discussed  all  questions  with  an  ease  and  grace 
that  put  one  at  his  best  from  the  start.  We  sat  there 
until  the  early  hours  of  the  morning,  and  the  streets 
were  still  filled  with  people  on  pleasure  bent. 

At  the  Theatre  Francais  (which  we  visited  as  his 
guests,  occupying  his  private  stall)  we  had  an  unin- 
terrupted view  of  a  very  fashionable  audience  one 
Tuesday  afternoon,  which  is  the  day  upon  which  all 
fashionable  Paris  pays  its  respects  to  this  house  of 
ancient  traditions.  I  do  not  know  why  Tuesday  es- 
pecially, but  so  it  is.  Perhaps  for  the  same  reason 
that  with  us  a  Saturday  matinee  is  more  fashionable 
than  a  Wednesday  matinee. 

I  have  not  the  slightest  idea  of  what  was  played 
that  first  time;  for  I  did  not  go  to  see  the  play,  I 
went  to  see  the  people.  There  were  great  numbers 
of  "the  young  person,"  each  accompanied  by  father 
or  mother,  and  in  many  instances  by  both.  All  atten- 
tion semed  to  be  centered  in  the  young  girls,  and 
their  amusement  and  entertainment  seemed  to  be  the 
most  serious  business  in  hand  at  the  moment.  It  was 
a  "matinee"  audience;  all  seemed  to  be  in  a  sort  of 
holiday  mood.  Young  people  may  not  attend  every 
theater  in  Paris,  I  understand,  but  at  this  theater 
they  are  always  to  be  seen  in  numbers.     It  is  safe. 

Le  Theatre  Frangais  is  one  of  the  old  theaters  of 
Paris,  filled  with  sentiment  and  reminiscences,  as  well 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  303 

as  with  more  sentient  objects, — statues,  an  interest- 
ing museum  devoted  to  things  of  the  theatrical  world. 
T.  Okey  says: 

To  witness  a  premiere  at  the  Francois  is  an  intellectual  feast. 
The  brilliant  house;  the  pit  and  stalls  filled  with  black-coated 
critics;  the  quick  apprehension  of  the  points  and  happy  phrases; 
the  universal  and  excited  discussions  between  the  acts;  the  atmos- 
phere of  keen  and  alert  intelligence  pervading  the  whole  assem- 
bly; the  quaint  survival  of  the  time-honored  "Overture" — three 
knocks  on  the  boards — dating  back  to  Roman  times  when  the  Pro- 
logus  of  the  Comedy  stepped  forth  and  craved  the  attention  of 
the  audience  by  three  raps  of  his  wand;  the  chief  actor's  approach 
to  the  front  of  the  stage  after  the  play  is  ended  to  announce  to 
Mesdames  and  Messieurs  what  in  these  days  they  have  known 
for  weeks  before  from  the  press,  that  "the  piece  we  have  had 
the  honor  of  playing"  is  by  such  a  one — all  combine  to  make  an 
indelible  impression  on  the  mind  of  the  foreign  spectator. 

Why  is  it  that  we  seldom  think  of  Moliere  after 
leaving  school  until  we  get  to  Paris?  Here  he  still 
lives.  We  are  constantly  confronted  with  things  to 
remind  us  of  the  great  dramatist;  statues,  monu- 
ments, and  portraits  are  on  every  side.  In  the  foyer 
of  the  Franqais  is  a  portrait  of  Moliere,  looking  on 
at  a  group  of  buffoons,  as  if  rather  bored  at  their 
antics.  However,  these  buffoons  furnished  all  the 
comedy  we  had  until  he  came  along  with  his  own 
particular  style  of  mirth-producers — "Les  Femmes 
Savantes,"  "Les  Precieuses  Ridicules,"  "Le  Docteur 
Amoureux,"  "Tartuffe,"  and  so  on. 

Here  is  also  a  statue  of  Voltaire, — Voltaire  sit- 
ting in  a  big  arm-chair,  in  a  loose  robe,  death 
stamped  on  his  charming  old  face,  lighted  up  by  the 
same  half-kindly,  half-cynical  smile  that  he  carried 
about  with  him  all  through  his  long,  interesting  life. 


304  PARIS 

That  smile  must  have  been  buried  with  him,  as  'tis 
said  that  he  was  smiling  even  in  his  coffin.  I 
shouldn't  wonder,  if  he  saw  his  own  funeral  proces- 
sion that  rainy  day. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE    HUMBERT    AUCTION.       MILITARY    MASS    AT    LES 
INVALIDES.      MEUDON.      ST.  GERMAIN 

When  there  is  going  to  be  an  auction  in  Paris,  it 
is  the  custom  to  send  invitations  to  numerous  per- 
sons, who  then  go,  several  days,  perhaps,  before 
the  auction  is  to  take  place,  to  look  over  the  articles 
to  be  disposed  of, — paintings,  statuary,  furniture, — 
and  pick  out  those  things  which  they  might  care  to 
bid  on,  of  all  of  which  the  authorities  in  charge  make 
note. 

It  seems  that  that  wonderful  woman  of  whom  I 
have  already  spoken,  Madam  Humbert,  had  been 
quite  a  collector  of  paintings  and  other  works  of  art. 
After  her  arrest,  while  she  was  still  in  prison  await- 
ing sentence,  her  art  treasures  were  all  taken  to  a 
certain  place, — a  large  mansion  in  a  private  street 
near  her  home, — and  there  disposed  of  at  an  auction 
sale. 

My  friends  received  a  card,  and  consequently 
one  afternoon  we  went  to  view  the  spoils.  A  line  of 
carriages  extended  for  a  block  or  more  on  either 
side  of  the  street.  The  place  was  crowded  with 
an  extraordinarily  well-dressed  company  of  men  and 
women — a  real  "society"  event. 

We  gave  our  card  to  a  factotum  at  the  entrance, 

305 


306  PARIS 

and  at  once  found  ourselves  in  a  large  salon,  the 
walls  lined  with  paintings  as  in  an  art  gallery,  peo- 
ple passing  backwards  and  forwards,  looking  at 
this,  scrutinizing  that,  making  comments,  and  entries 
in  their  little  books. 

After  a  while  we  all  became  unpleasantly  cogni- 
zant of  the  fact  that  I  was  the  attraction  of  nearly 
every  eye  in  the  place.  People  would  pass  close 
up  to  me,  look  me  as  nearly  in  the  face  as  they  dared, 
whisper,  then  pass  on.  They  looked  me  over  from 
head  to  foot.  I  knew  my  gown  was  all  that  it  should 
be,  but  I  did  not  know  but  that  some  catastrophe 
had  taken  place  in  the  back, — that  something  had 
gone  wrong.  Anyway,  we  became  most  uncomfort- 
able.     Later  on,   I  told   Monsieur  O to   step 

away  from  us,  back  into  the  crowd,  and  try  to  find 
out  why  I  was  attracting  this  absurd  attention. 

The  thing  was  incredible !  Word  had  been  passed 
along  that  I, — I, — was  Madam  Humbert!  Surely 
I  must  have  borne  a  lively  resemblance  to  that  cele- 
brated lady!  They  had  every  reason  to  believe  that 
she  was  in  prison,  and  yet  acted  like  that!  Monsieur 
was  told  by  a  gentleman  that  people  had  believed 
that  perhaps  it  had  been  possible  for  her  to  make 
some  kind  of  an  arrangement  by  which  she  might 
be  permitted  to  leave  prison  long  enough  to  super- 
intend the  sale  of  these  art  treasures.  People  do 
not  stop  to  reason — Madam  Humbert  was  a  middle- 
aged  woman,  and  I  was  a  young  woman. 

Monsieur  O came  back  in   a   few  minutes, 

and  said: 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  307 

"Let  us  speak  English  very  strong." 

And  in  a  few  minutes  all  was  over;  the  episode 
was  closed;  no  one  paid  us  any  more  attention.  The 
clever  woman  is  still  "doing  time,"  so  far  as  I  know. 

Going  to  church  on  Sunday  morning  in  Paris  is 
"sight-seeing"  as  much  as  anything  else  a  stranger 
can  do.  My  friends  insisted  that  I  attend  Military 
High  Mass  at  the  Church  of  the  Invalides,  which 
we  all  did,  the  result  being  my  discomfiture, — my 
utter  rout! 

At  the  elevation  of  the  Host,  the  old  soldiers  beat 
their  drums  and  present  arms.  Who  could  stand 
that?  Not  I !  I  wept  gallons  of  tears.  What  for? 
I  have  no  idea !  It  was  not  my  flag  that  was  dis- 
played; they  were  not  my  country's  defenders  who 
beat  the  drums  and  presented  arms;  but  I  wept,  and 
wiped  the  powder  from  my  face,  as  I  always  do  at 
the  sight  of  soldiers  and  at  the  sound  of  military 
music, — all  except  the  Marseillaise.  When  I  hear 
that  I  walk  in  a  gallop  and  feel  like  shouting:  "Off 
with  his  head!" 

At  mass  here  one  does  not  ponder  on  things  di- 
vine; it  is  always  of  things  Napoleonic.  Napoleon 
here,  Napoleon  there — behind  the  altar,  up  in  the 
roof — everywhere !  The  war  gods  are  all  in  evi- 
dence and  claim  nearly  all  of  one's  thought. 

As  said  before,  French  people  are  very  fond  of 
a  day  in  the  country.  So  one  beautiful  Sunday  morn- 
ing, we,  in  company  with  eight  or  ten  others,  went 
to  Meudon, — a  lovely  old  forest  not  far  from  Paris. 
There  were  Monsieur  le  Directeur,  his  wife  and  two 


3o3  PARIS 

daughters,  three  or  four  other  couples,  besides  sev- 
eral children. 

We  went  by  steamer,  which  was  crowded  with 
picnickers,  until  there  was  not  even  standing  room 
left.  After  landing,  we  walked  for  a  long  distance 
through  the  beautiful  forest,  until  we  came  to  a  small 
inn,  tucked  away  back  among  the  trees. 

Under  a  pergola,  at  the  back  of  the  inn,  were  a 
number  of  tables  with  wooden  benches  either  side. 

Each  member  of  the  party  had  brought  a  basket 
of  luncheon.  The  proprietor  of  the  inn  laid  a  clean 
white  cloth  over  one  of  the  long  tables;  he  furnished 
two  enormous  bowls  of  salad,  the  wine,  the  coffee, 
and  all  the  silverware.  It  was  amusing  to  me  to 
watch  these  men  mix  and  prepare  the  dressing  for 
the  salad.  In  France,  the  man  of  the  house  always 
mixes  the  salad  dressing  and  serves  the  wine.  They 
all  exhibited  an  exuberance  of  life,  discussing  every 
imaginable  subject  with  animation.  They  told 
stories,  as  we  sat  around  the  table,  at  which  every 
one  laughed  heartily;  they  sang  songs,  and  then 
varied  the  program  by  taking  turns  at  the  big  swing 
suspended  between  two  tall  trees  close  by. 

After  that,  we  walked  and  walked,  occasionally 
meeting  other  parties  of  cheerful  picnickers  and 
swarms  of  children  in  their  Sunday  pinafores, — all 
engaged  in  their  efforts  to  enjoy  the  day,  as  we  were 
doing. 

The  roads  of  the  forest  are  laid  out  almost  as 
well  as  streets, — long,  straight,  well-kept,  shadowy 
highways,   under  the   deep   shadows   of  lovely   old 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  3°9 

trees,  stretching  out  in  all  directions.  As  a  diver- 
sion, from  time  to  time  we  would  sit  down  for  a 
while  under  the  trees,  while  the  men  would  play 
ball  with  the  children,  some  of  the  women  joining 
in  once  in  a  while.  The  stately  Director  of  the 
Theatre  Franqais  played  ball  like  one  of  the  boys. 

The  French  woman  always  seems  to  be  the  boon 
companion  of  her  husband.  They  seem  devoted  to 
each  other  to  an  unusual  degree.  It  seems  almost 
impossible  for  a  Frenchman  to  enjoy  himself  with- 
out the  companionship  of  his  wife  and  children, 
notwithstanding  all  that  books  may  say  to  the  con- 
trary. 

After  strolling  for  some  time,  we  came  to  a  quaint, 
lovely  old  house.  Monsieur  le  Directeur  stopped 
at  the  wall  to  speak  with  a  young  man  who  was  lean- 
ing there.  This  had  been  the  home  of  the  sym- 
pathetic historian,  Michelet.  A  lovely  old  house  it 
was,  bathed  in  the  glow  of  the  solemn,  beautiful 
green  light  that  came  streaming  down  through  the 
rustling  foliage  of  the  great  trees. 

Then  we  came  to  an  Observatory;  and,  after  a 
somewhat  longer  walk,  to  the  home  and  studios  of 
Rodin — a  brick  house  with  attached  studios,  set  back 
in  the  midst  of  a  lovely  old  garden. 

Meudon  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  places  in  the 
vicinity  of  Paris.  Tall  trees  cast  their  green  shadows 
over  lovely  paths,  leading  into  dense  cool  retreats. 
Wild  flowers  and  green  grass  carpets  add  to  its 
charm.  Only  a  few  moments  are  required  to  pass 
from  the  noise  of  the  busy  streets  of  Paris,  into  the 


310  PARIS 

cool  dim  shadows  of  this  immense  old  forest  of 
Meudon  that  writers  and  painters  love.  These 
strolls  and  rambles  through  its  shaded  pathways  are 
something  not  to  be  forgotten  by  those  who  love 
such  scenes.  Of  all  picnic  experiences,  there  is  none 
other  quite  like  a  cold  luncheon  in  the  Forest  of 
Meudon,  under  the  shade  of  the  waving  trees,  with 
trie  Seine  flowing  placidly  by.  The  tranquillity  and 
the  soothing  wildness  are  features  of  which  one  could 
scarcely  grow  tired. 

On  the  return  trip  the  steamers  were  so  crowded 
that  we  were  obliged  to  stand  all  the  way,  as  were 
hundreds  of  others.  But  why  complain,  after  hav- 
ing had  such  a  beautiful  day! 

Upon  another  occasion  we  motored  out  to  Saint 
Germain-en-Laye,  some  ten  or  twelve  miles  from 
Paris,  an  old  town  which  was  once  the  home  of 
Kings.  The  place  is  filled  with  things  historical  and 
of  great  human  interest,  but  I  admit  candidly  that 
none  of  these  attracted  me  half  as  much  as  did  the 
historical  hotel  and  restaurant  du  Pavilion  Henri 
IV.  They  say  it  has  been  visited  perhaps  by  all  the 
noted  people  of  the  world  who  have  been  to  Paris, 
and  I  wanted  to  tread,  if  only  for  a  few  minutes,  in 
the  footsteps  of  the  great. 

In  the  garden  of  the  hotel  (which  is  at  one  end 
of  the  wonderful  Terrace)  are  tables  and  chairs; 
and  here  it  is  that  people  go  on  Sunday  afternoons 
for  a  cup  of  coffee,  a  view  from  the  terrace,  and  a 
stroll  through  the  forest  of  Saint  Germain,  which 
extends  for  five  or  six  miles  back  of  the  town. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  311 

The  terrace  itself,  a  beautiful  roadway  lined  with 
rows  of  trees  on  one  side,  and  an  open  view  towards 
Paris  on  the  other,  extends  for  a  mile  and  a  half 
along  the  Seine  at  an  elevation  of  about  two  hundred 
feet  above  the  river. 

We  sat  at  our  table  in  the  garden  of  the  cafe  for 
a  long  time,  looking  at  the  people,  and  off  through 
the  hazy  distance,  at  Paris.  The  space  between 
looked  like  a  rolling  sea  of  mist,  pierced  here  and 
there  by  gilded  domes  and  pointed  towers  and 
steeples, — it  did  not  resemble  land  at  all.  Row 
after  row  of  roofs  could  be  dimly  seen,  but  they  only 
added  to  the  sense  of  a  "sea," — a  sea  of  houses  and 
trees  and  haze. 

We  walked  along  the  terrace.  Hundreds  of  peo- 
ple were  promenading  there,  all  stopping  now  and 
then  to  look  at  that  misty  dream,  Paris,  away  off 
there  on  the  bluish-gray  horizon. 

This  is  a  place  that  touches  the  affections, — the 
beautiful  old  town  with  its  grim-looking  old  chateau 
and  its  beautiful  old  church.  Such  places  appeal  very 
strongly  to  certain  natures. 

Upon  numerous  occasions  we  went  to  the  Pavilion 
for  coffee,  and  the  Sunday-afternoon  scene  is  always 
the  same — as  though  the  promenaders  had  never  left 
their  places  on  the  terrace.  It  is  strange  how  ex- 
actly one  crowd  resembles  another. 

The  sovereigns  of  France  have  furnished  some 
exceedingly  pretty  places  for  the  Sunday  excursion- 
ist to  visit,  if  nothing  more.  Let  us  give  Cassar  his 
due. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

CAFE  DU   NEANT.       OTHER    CAFES 

A  cafe  of  quite  another  sort  is  the  Cafe  du  Neant, 
to  which  we  went  one  evening.  It  was  located  in  a 
dark-looking  building,  the  entrance  (over  which 
hung  a  green  lantern)  flush  with  the  sidewalk.  One 
can  imagine  the  sort  of  light  shed  over  the  entrance 
way. 

A  fellow  dressed  as  a  pall-bearer  stands  at  one 
side  of  the  door,  and  in  mournful  tones  invites  you 
to  come  in,  but  as  I  had  no  real  knowledge  of  what 
was  said  (every  word  being  sort  of  mumbled),  I 
will  use  the  splendid  description  given  by  W.  C. 
Morrow  in  his  "Bohemian  Paris  of  To-day."  I  saw 
practically  what  he  saw,  but  did  not  understand 
what  was  said,  and  this  able  description  tells  what 
was  heard  as  well  as  what  was  seen: 

"As  we  neared  the  place  [Place  Pigalle],  we  saw 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  two  flickering  iron 
lanterns  that  threw  a  ghastly  green  light  down  upon 
the  barred  dead-black  shutters  of  the  building,  and 
caught  the  faces  of  the  passers-by  with  sickly  rays 
that  took  out  all  the  life  and  transformed  them  into 
the  semblance  of  corpses.     Across  the  top  of  the 

312 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  3*3 

closed  black  entrance  were  large  white  letters,  read- 
ing simply:     'Cafe  du  Neant.' 

"The  entrance  was  heavily  draped  with  black 
cerements,  having  white  trimmings, — such  as  hang 
before  the  houses  of  the  dead  in  Paris. 

"Here  patroled  a  solitary  croque  mort,  or  hired 
pallbearer,  his  black  cape  drawn  closely  about  him, 
the  green  light  reflected  by  his  glazed  top-hat.  A 
more  dismal  and  forbidding  place  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  imagine.  The  lonely  croque  mort  drew  apart 
the  heavy  curtain  and  admitted  us  into  a  black  hole 
that  proved  later  to  be  a  room.  The  chamber  was 
dimly  lighted  with  wax  tapers  and  a  large  chandelier 
intricately  devised  of  human  skulls  and  arms,  with 
funeral  candles  held  in  their  fleshless  fingers,  gave  its 
small  quota  of  light. 

"Large,  heavy,  wooden  coffins,  resting  on  biers, 
were  ranged  about  the  room  in  an  order  suggesting 
the  recent  happening  of  a  frightful  catastrophe.  The 
walls  were  decorated  with  skulls  and  bones,  skele- 
tons in  grotesque  attitudes,  battle-pictures,  and  guil- 
lotines in  action.  Death,  carnage,  assassination  were 
the  dominant  note,  set  in  black  hangings  and  illu- 
minated with  mottoes  on  death.  A  half-dozen  voices 
droned  this  in  a  low  monotone: 

"  'Enter,  mortals  of  this  sinful  world,  enter  into 
the  mists  and  shadows  of  eternity.  Select  your  biers, 
to  the  right,  to  the  left;  fit  yourselves  comfortably 
to  them,  and  repose  in  the  solemnity  and  tranquillity 
of  death;  and  may  God  have  mercy  on  your  souls!' 

"A  number  of  persons  who  had  preceded  us  had 


314  PARIS 

already  preempted  their  coffins,  and  were  sitting 
beside  them  awaiting  developments  and  enjoying  the 
consommations,  using  the  coffins  for  their  real  pur- 
pose— tables  for  holding  drinking  glasses.  Along- 
side the  glasses  were  slender  tapers  by  which  the 
visitors  might  see  one  another. 

"There  seemed  to  be  no  mechanical  imperfection 
in  the  illusion  of  a  charnel-house;  we  imagined  that 
even  chemistry  had  contributed  its  resources,  for 
there  seemed  distinctly  to  be  the  odor  appropriate 
to  such  a  place. 

"We  found  a  vacant  coffin  in  the  vault,  seated 
ourselves  at  it  on  rush-bottomed  stools,  and  awaited 
further  developments.  Another  croque  mort — a 
gargon  he  was — came  up  through  the  gloom  to  take 
our  orders.  He  was  dressed  completely  in  the  pro- 
fessional garb  of  a  hearse-follower,  including  claw- 
hammer coat,  full  dress  front,  glazed  tile,  and  oval 
silver  badge.     He  droned 

"  'Bon  soir,  Macchabees !'  (this  word  is  given  in 
Paris  by  sailors  to  cadavers  found  floating  in  the 
river).  .  .  .  'One  microbe  of  Asiatic  cholera  from 
the  last  corpse,  one  leg  of  a  lively  cancer,  and  one 
sample  of  our  consumption  germ!'  moaned  the  crea- 
ture towards  a  black  hole  at  the  further  end  of  the 
room. 

"Some  women  among  the  visitors  tittered,  others 
shuddered.  Our  sleepy  pallbearer  soon  loomed 
through  the  darkness  with  our  deadly  microbes  and 
waked  the  echoes  in  the  hollow  casket  upon  which 
he  sat  the  glasses  with  a  thump.     'Drink  Maccha- 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  315 

bees!'  he  wailed;  'Drink  these  noxious  potions,  which 
contain  the  vilest  and  deadliest  poisons!' 

"The  tapers  flickered  feebly  on  the  coffins,  and 
the  white  skulls  grinned  .  .  .  mockingly  from  their 
sable  background. 

"After  we  had  been  seated  here  for  some  time, 
getting  no  consolation  from  the  utter  absence  of 
spirit  and  levity  among  the  other  guests,  and  enjoy- 
ing only  the  dismay  and  trepidation  of  new  and 
strange  arrivals,  a  rather  good-looking  young  fel- 
low, dressed  in  a  black  clerical  coat,  came  through 
a  dark  door  and  began  to  address  the  assembled  pa- 
trons. His  voice  was  smooth,  his  manner  solemn  and 
impressive,  as  he  delivered  a  well-worded  discourse 
on  death.  He  spoke  of  it  as  the  gate  through  which 
we  must  all  make  our  exit  from  this  world — of  the 
gloom,  the  loneliness,  the  utter  sense  of  helplessness 
and  desolation.  As  he  warmed  to  his  subject  he  en- 
larged upon  the  follies  that  hasten  the  advent  of 
death,  and  spoke  of  the  relentless  certainty  and  the 
incredible  variety  of  ways  in  which  the  reaper  claims 
his  victims. 

"Then  he  passed  on  to  the  terrors  of  actual  dis- 
solution, the  tortures  of  the  body,  the  rending  of 
the  soul,  the  unimaginable  agonies  that  sensibilities 
rendered  acutely  susceptible  at  this  extremity  are 
called  upon  to  endure.  It  required  good  nerves  to 
listen  to  that,  for  the  man  was  perfect  in  his  role. 

"From  matters  of  individual  interest  in  death,  he 
passed  to  death  in  its  larger  aspects.  He  pointed 
to  a  large   and  striking  battle  scene,   in  which  the 


316  PARIS 

combatants  had  come  to  hand-to-hand  fighting,  and 
were  butchering  one  another  in  a  mad  lust  for  blood. 
Suddenly  the  picture  began  to  glow,  the  light  bring- 
ing out  its  ghastly  details  with  hideous  distinctness. 
Then  as  suddenly  it  faded  away,  and  where  fighting 
men  had  been,  there  were  skeletons  writhing  and 
struggling  in  a  deadly  embrace. 

"A  similar  effect  was  produced  with  a  painting 
giving  a  wonderfully  realistic  representation  of  an 
execution  by  guillotine.  The  bleeding  trunk  of  the 
victim  lying  upon  the  flap-board  dissolved,  the  flesh 
slowing  disappearing,  leaving  only  the  white  bones. 

"Another  picture,  representing  a  brilliant  dance- 
hall  filled  with  happy  revellers,  slowly  merged  into 
a  grotesque  dance  of  skeletons;  and  thus  it  was  with 
other  pictures  about  the  room. 

"All  of  this  being  done,  the  Master  of  Cere- 
monies, in  lugubrious  tones,  invited  us  to  enter  the 
Chambre  de  la  Mort.  All  the  visitors  rose,  and, 
bearing  each  a  taper,  passed  in  single  file  into  a 
narrow,  dark  passage  faintly  illuminated  with  sickly 
green  lights,  the  young  man  in  clerical  garb  acting 
as  pilot.  The  cross  effects  of  green  and  yellow  lights 
of  the  faces  of  the  groping  procession  were  more 
startling  than  picturesque.  The  way  was  lined  with 
bones,  skulls,  and  fragments  of  human  bodies.   .   .   . 

"Then  before  us  appeared  a  solitary  figure  stand- 
ing beneath  a  green  lamp.  The  figure  was  com- 
pletely shrouded  in  black,  only  the  eyes  being  visible, 
and  they  shone  through  the  holes  in  the  pointed  cowl. 
From   the   folds   of  the   gown   it  brought   forth   a 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  317 

massive  iron  key  attached  to  a  chain,  and,  approach- 
ing a  door  seemingly  made  of  iron  and  heavily  stud- 
ded with  spikes  and  crossed  with  bars,  inserted  and 
turned  the  key;  the  bolts  moved  with  a  harsh,  grat- 
ing noise,  and  the  door  of  the  Chamber  of  Death 
swung  slowly  open. 

"  'Oh,  Macchabees,  enter  into  eternity,  whence 
none  ever  return!'  cried  the  new,  strange  voice. 

"The  walls  of  the  room  were  a  dead  and  unre- 
lieved black.  At  one  side  two  tall  candles  were 
burning,  but  this  feeble  light  was  insufficient  even 
to  disclose  the  presence  of  the  black  walls  of  the 
chamber  or  indicate  that  anything  but  unending  black- 
ness extended  heavenward.  There  was  not  a  thing 
to  catch  and  reflect  a  single  ray  of  the  light  and  thus 
become  visible  in  the  darkness. 

"Between  the  two  candles  was  an  upright  open- 
ing in  the  wall;  it  was  in  the  shape  of  a  coffin.  We 
seated  ourselves  upon  rows  of  small  black  caskets 
resting  on  the  floor  in  front  of  the  candles.  There 
was  hardly  a  whisper  among  the  visitors.  The 
black-hooded  figure  passed  silently  out  of  view  and 
vanished  in  the  darkness. 

"Presently  a  pale,  greenish-white  illumination  be- 
gan to  light  up  the  coffin-shaped  hole  in  the  wall, 
clearly  marking  its  outline  against  the  black.  Within 
this  space  there  stood  a  coffin  upright,  in  which  a 
pretty  young  woman  robed  in  a  white  shroud,  fitted 
snugly. 

"Soon  it  was  evident  that  she  was  very  much  alive, 
for  she  smiled  and  looked  at  us  saucily.     But  that 


318  PARIS 

was  not  for  long.  From  the  depths  came  a  dismal 
wail:  'Oh  Macchabee,  beautiful,  breathing  mortal, 
pulsating  with  the  warmth  and  richness  of  life,  thou 
art  now  in  the  grasp  of  death!  Compose  thy  soul 
for  the  end!' 

"Her  face  slowly  became  white  and  rigid;  her  eyes 
sank;  her  lips  tightened  across  her  teeth;  her  cheeks 
took  on  the  hollowness  of  death — she  was  dead. 
But  it  did  not  end  with  that.  From  white  the  face 
slowly  grew  livid  .  .  .  then  purplish  black.  .  .  . 
The  eyes  visibly  shrank  into  their  greenish-yellow 
sockets.  .  .  .  Slowly  the  hair  fell  away.  .  .  .  The 
nose  melted  away  into  a  purple  putrid  spot.  The 
whole  face  became  a  semi-liquid  mass  of  corrup- 
tion. Presently  all  this  had  disappeared,  and  a  gleam- 
ing skull  shone  where  so  recently  had  been  the  hand- 
some face  of  a  woman;  naked  teeth  grinned  inanely 
and  savagely  where  rosy  lips  had  so  recently  smiled. 
Even  the  shroud  had  gradually  disappeared,  and 
an  entire  skeleton  stood  revealed  in  the  coffin. 

"The  wail  again  rang  through  the  silent  vault: 
'Ah,  ah,  Macchabee !  Thou  hast  reached  the  last 
stage  of  dissolution,  so  dreadful  to  mortals.  The 
work  that  follows  death  is  complete.  But  despair 
not,  for  death  is  not  the  end  of  all.  ...  So  return 
if  thou  deservedst  and  desirest.' 

"With  a  slowness  equal  to  that  of  the  dissolution, 
the  bones  became  covered  with  flesh  and  cerements, 
and  all  the  ghastly  steps  were  reproduced  reversed. 
Gradually  the  sparkle  of  the  eyes  began  to  shine 
through  the  gloom;  but  when  the  reformation  was 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  319 

completed,  behold!  there  was  no  longer  the  hand- 
some and  smiling  young  woman,  but  the  sleek,  rotund 
body,  ruddy  cheeks,  and  self-conscious  look  of  a 
banker.  .  .  .  The  prosperous  banker  stepped  forth, 
sleek  and  tangible,  and  haughtily  strode  away  be- 
fore our  eyes,  passing  through  the  audience  into  the 
darkness.   .   .   . 

"He  of  the  black  gown  and  pointed  hood  now 
emerged  through  an  invisible  door,  and  asked  if  there 
was  any  one  in  the  audience  who  desired  to  pass 
through  the  experience  that  they  had  just  witnessed. 
This  created  a  suppressed  commotion;  each  peered 
into  the  face  of  his  neighbor  to  find  one  with  courage 
sufficient  for  the  ordeal.   .   .   . 

"A  mysterious  figure  in  black  waylaid  the  crowd 
as  it  filed  out.  He  held  an  inverted  skull,  into  which 
we  were  expected  to  drop  sous  through  the  natural 
opening  there,  and  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  relief 
from  a  heavy  weight  that  we  departed  and  turned 
our  backs  on  the  green  lights  at  the  entrance." 

Of  course,  I  could  not  understand  all  that  was 
said,  but  have  no  reason  to  think  they  were  not  ex- 
actly as  the  writer  quoted  has  stated, — all  the  extra- 
ordinary gestures  I  observed  would  fit  exactly  the 
words  said.  However,  I  felt  none  of  the  horror  of 
it — saw  only  the  amusing  side  of  the  affair,  and  kept 
wondering  how  on  earth  human  beings  could  ever 
have  thought  out  such  a  program,  as  an  amusement. 

Upon  the  occasion  of  my  visit,  the  "victim"  was  a 
young  man  who,  in  answer  to  a  request  for  some  one 


32o  PARIS 

to  come  forward  and  show  his  friends  how  he  would 
look  in  death  (which  is  evidently  the  usual  pro- 
cedure), arose  from  the  midst  of  his  companions, 
and,  with  a  sheepish  grin,  went  to  the  platform  and 
walked  into  the  coffin  standing  so  invitingly  upon 
end. 

Of  course,  the  cause  was  quite  hidden  from  the 
audience,  but  the  effect  was  mystery  (the  attractions 
of  the  mysterious  were  thrown  over  the  whole  per- 
formance with  no  niggardly  profusion),  and  we  sat 
there,  in  the  uncertain  light  of  the  flickering  tapers, 
looking  at  the  performance,  and  listening  to  the  slow, 
tolling  cadence  of  the  Chopin  Funeral  March  with 
which  it  was  accompanied,  and  gaped  through  it  all. 
One  might  not,  perhaps,  claim  any  special  virtue  for 
this  particular  form  of  entertainment,  though  it  is, 
to  say  next  to  nothing,  a  curious  one. 

I  am  told  that  all  these  transformations  are  ac- 
complished by  means  of  lights  and  mirrors !  but,  no 
matter, — it  is  a  weird  and  melancholy  show. 

Of  the  other  things  accomplished  by  means  of 
lights  and  mirrors,  I  have  not  spoken — neither  has 
any  one  else — but  all  who  have  been  there  will  under- 
stand to  what  I  refer.  Nothing  so  horrible, — noth- 
ing concerning  the  subject  of  death.  No,  indeed! 
But  it  could  not  be  put  into  print. 

From  here,  in  order  to  further  round  out  my  ex- 
perience, they  took  me  to  the  Cafe  Ciel  (the  Cafe 
of  Heaven),  the  antithesis  of  the  other. 

The  ceiling  was  a  deep  blue,  besprinkled  with 
small  incandescent  lights,  giving  to  it  the  resemblance 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  321 

of  a  starry  sky.  The  waiters  were  garbed  in  angelic 
robes,  light,  gauzy  wings  flapping  back  and  forth  on 
their  shoulders  as  they  moved  about  in  the  breeze, 
sandals  on  their  bare  feet.  Personally,  however,  I 
preferred  the  other  one, — the  gloomy  one, — to  this 
bright  cafe.  There  was  food  for  some  speculative 
thought  in  the  other  cafe;  here  all  was  merriment, 
with  no  illusions  to  lead  the  mind  into  any  unusual 
channels.  The  whole  thing  was  too  apparently  a 
joke. 

One  fact  I  noticed,  because  the  opposite  is  so  con- 
stantly affirmed;  and  that  was,  that  the  guests  were 
French,  in  both  cabarets.  If  there  was  another 
American  in  either  audience, — other  than  myself, — 
he  did  not  betray  his  nationality  by  speech,  for  noth- 
ing but  French  did  I  hear. 

There  are  some  fearful  places  on  Montmartre,  I 
am  told:  cabarets  where  it  would  not  be  safe  to  go; 
but  as  I  had  no  desire  to  see  them,  I  never  made  any 
effort  to  investigate  the  facts. 

These  cabarets  are*  really  a  curious  invention, 
half-way  between  a  concert-hall  and  a  beer-hall, 
where  there  is  generally  some  sort  of  music  ren- 
dered, or  recitations  given,  impromptu  speeches 
made  on  politics,  on  art,  on  leading  questions  of  the 
day, — something  to  amuse;  and  these  places  are  of 
all  sorts  and  conditions,  each  attracting  its  own  par- 
ticular brand  of  patronage. 

The  brasserie  is  quite  different  in  character, — a 
sort  of  cafe  where  they  specialize  in  beer.  And 
sometimes   they   are    very  pretty, — all   fixed   up    in 


322  PARIS 

either  the  old  Flemish  or  German  style,  as  a  general 
thing,  with  stained-glass  windows,  high-backed,  nar- 
row-legged chairs  of  dark,  somber  woods,  with  the 
polish  of  age  on  them;  barrel  ceilings,  and  sawdust 
on  the  floors.  Once  in  a  while,  we  came  across  one 
fitted  up  in  French  style :  an  abundant  supply  of 
mirrors  on  the  walls,  red  velvet  seats  lined  up  along 
the  walls,  and  small,  marble-topped  tables  standing 
in  front  of  the  velvet  seats. 

We  went  also  to  the  Moulin  Rouge  one  evening, 
but  I  could  not  enjoy  its  attractions — my  mind  went 
persistently  back  to  the  Whatleys,  and  all  I  had  lost 
by  their  return  to  England.  The  show  was  a  repeti- 
tion of  the  former  one,  but  my  curiosity  had  been 
satisfied  on  my  first  visit,  and  I  found  I  no  longer 
cared  for  what  it  had  to  offer.  So  much  has  associa- 
tion to  do  with  anything  we  do,  or  see  in  life. 

We  soon  left  the  place,  and  went  to  the  Bal 
Bulier, — an  enormous  dance  hall  frequented  more 
particularly  by  students. 

The  great  hall  was  brilliant  with  lights,  and  sev- 
eral hundred  couples  went  whirling  by  at  a  most 
giddy  rate.  A  constant  whirl!  Never  do  these  people 
reverse,  and  it  is  a  source  of  perpetual  amazement  to 
me  that  they  do  not  fall  in  their  tracks  from  vertigo. 

Some  of  the  young  women  were  evidently  de- 
votees of  the  bicycle,  for  they  were  there,  dancing 
in  their  bloomers.  I  do  not  care  at  all  for  these 
places,  but  who  wants  to  come  to  Paris  and  not  be 
able  to  say  he  has  seen  them? 

The  Ambassadeurs  in  the  Champs  Elysees, — an 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  323 

enormous  cafe-chantant,  where  the  prices  are  very 
high  and  the  food  not  so  good  as  is  to  be  found  in 
many  places  for  much  less  money, — provides  an  en- 
tertainment of  another  kind.  We  were  not  so  much 
interested  in  the  food,  however,  we  went  to  see  what 
there  was  to  be  seen. 

We  sat  at  a  table  in  the  balcony,  from  which  point 
we  could  see  all  that  was  going  on  upon  the  stage; 
thus  we  could  enjoy  our  own  dinner  and  at  the  same 
time  take  in  the  spectacle  of  the  crowd  of  extraordi- 
narily well-dressed  people, — all  engaged  in  the  very 
agreeable  pastime  of  eating  a  well-served  dinner. 

The  place  was  beautiful  with  myriads  of  electric 
lights  and  decorations  of  fresh  flowers  and  foliage. 
A  young  woman  in  a  somewhat  abbreviated  costume, 
came  out  and  sang  that  same  song  of  "Oh,  oh,  oh, 
oh,  oh!"  that  I  had  heard  the  very  first  night  I  was 
in  Paris,  and  she  executed  the  same  sort  of  little 
hops,  kicks,  and  side-steps,  punctuated  by  the  rolling 
of  the  eyes,  as  the  Moulin  Rouge  singer  had  done. 
Madame  O explained  to  me  the  words  in  Eng- 
lish, and,  while  not  positively  prohibitive,  might  not 
look  so  well  in  English  as  they  perhaps  do  in  French. 
No  one  seems  to  object  to  the  catchy  little  song  in 
the  least,  and  it  is  whistled  everywhere  on  the  streets. 

The  songs  I  could  not  understand  well  enough  to 
really  enjoy  or  to  appreciate  their  meanings,  as  they 
all  seemed  to  be  very  intimately  concerned  with  the 
questions  of  the  moment  in  Paris, — filled  with  allu- 
sions to  politics  and  such  kindred  subjects.  The 
French  people  seem  to  enjoy  especially  this  sort  of 


324  PARIS 

entertainment.  They  greet  all  political  "flings"  with 
genuine  delight,  if  not  actual  enthusiasm;  but  it 
might  be  difficult  for  a  foreigner  to  really  catch 
the  spirit  of  all  the  songs  and  quips, — to  get  into  the 
atmosphere,  as  it  were. 

But  the  eyes! — and  the  kicking!  One  can  easily 
understand  that  part  of  the  entertainment. 

The  sight  on  the  outside  of  these  summer-night 
cafes  seems  to  me  to  be  a  more  attractive  exhibition 
than  is  that  on  the  inside.  The  lights  shine  down 
through  the  emerald  green  of  the  trees,  and  the 
music  comes  floating  out  in  softened  harmonies  that 
fall  agreeably  on  the  ear  on  a  warm  summer  eve- 
ning. Barring  the  idea  of  lounging  about  for  a  free 
entertainment,  I  should  much  prefer  the  outside. 

There  are  several  of  these  great,  brilliantly-' 
lighted,  cafes-chantant  back  under  the  trees  along 
the  Champs  Elysees,  and  one  can  saunter  along  and 
enjoy  the  attractive  illuminations  and  listen  to  the 
music  without  the  expenditure  of  a  sou,  if  one  so 
wishes. 

The  cafes,  cabarets,  brasseries  and  wine-shops  of 
Paris  have  been  provided  with  some  very  capricious 
names, — names  that  revel  in  possibilities, — but  here 
is  one,  on  a  wine-shop,  that  will  make  the  stranger 
turn,  and  look  again,  just  to  make  sure :  "A  l'En- 
fant  Jesus."  It  has  an  iron  grill  made  in  the  design 
of  the  branches  of  a  vine,  into  which  has  been  woven 
the  monogram  of  the  Saviour,  and  the  whole  is 
topped  off  by  an  image  of  the  Christ-child  himself. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE     PALAIS     ROYAL.        FAIRS.       THE    RACES.       THE 
FRENCH  "FOURTH  OF  JULY" 

Whatever  else  may  have  been  taken  away  from 
the  Palais  Royal,  good  music  in  the  garden  still  re- 
mains to  it.  One  afternoon  we  wandered  into  its 
famous  old  garden  so  full  of  reminiscences,  and  sat 
and  listened  to  a  splendid  program  given  by  the 
"Guard  of  the  Republic," — a  company  of  as  fine 
musicians  as  I  ever  listened  to. 

The  garden  was  breezy  and  cool,  the  trees  cast 
their  waving  green  shadows  about  us,  the  people 
were  quiet  and  well-mannered,  and  the  open-air  con- 
cert all  that  one  could  wish  for.  All  seemed  so 
quiet  and  tranquil,  yet  only  a  short  distance  away, 
was  the  rush  and  roar  of  the  ceaseless  traffic  of  the 
Rue  St.  Honore,  which  reached  us  only  in  subdued 
sounds  between  the  bursts  of  music. 

There  are  so  many  lovely  places  in  and  around 
Paris  where  one  may  go  to  hear  music  when  that 
particular  frame  of  mind  seems  to  call  for  it. 

And  fairs,  too !  What  a  joy  they  are !  That  is, 
of  course,  to  those  who  find  amusement  in  indulging 
in  this  pastime.  I  should  certainly  recommend  all 
foreigners  to  attend  some  fair  in  order  to  see  this 

325 


326  PARIS 

phase  of  life  in  Paris.  These  fairs,  I  am  told,  are 
held  the  year  round;  that  the  people  who  have  stalls, 
or  exhibitions,  at  one  fair,  pull  up  stakes  when  that 
is  over,  and  move  on  to  the  next  one,  and  so  on. 

We  all  went  to  the  great  Fair  at  Neuilly,  on  the 
outskirts  of  Paris,  one  day  in  June,  which,  I  believe, 
is  always  the  month  for  the  fair  in  this  quarter  of 
the  city. 

Stalls  and  booths  of  every  description  were  erected 
for  about  a  mile  along  the  Avenue  de  Neuilly;  while 
across  the  broad  street  from  side  to  side,  were  strung 
flags  and  banners,  combined  with  garlands  and 
wreathes  of  gay-colored  paper-flowers  and  tinsel, 
giving  the  long  street  a  most  festive  appearance. 

All  kinds  of  gimcracks  and  cheap  wares  were  for 
sale.  There  were  many  different  games  of  chance, 
upon  which  we  squandered  our  money  with  joy,  espe- 
cially on  "Petits  Chevaux, — a  miniature  horserace, 
run  by  little  metal  horses  worked  by  some  mechan- 
ical device.  But  one  can  get  just  as  excited  over  a 
tin  horse  as  any  other  kind,  when  it  comes  to  a  race. 
People  tossed  their  franc  on  the  horse  of  their  choice 
as  eagerly  as  they  might  have  tossed  much  more  on 
a  live  animal. 

We  all  gambled,  and  every  one  of  us  rode  on  the 
"Merry-go-round."  Nor  were  we  the  only  grown- 
ups who  indulged  in  the  amusement  of  grasping  a 
grinning  beast  of  the  jungle  and  whirling  around 
and  around  through  the  dust-laden  atmosphere  to 
one  of  those  tunes  that  is  never  heard  outside  of  a 
circus.     There  were  people,  old  men,  and  women, 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  327 

too, — fat  old  ladies  even,  who  looked  all  of  sixty  or 
more, — riding  around  and  around  on  their  beasts, 
looking  as  pleased  as  could  be.  There  is  no  fun  in 
simply  looking  on  at  anything;  to  enjoy  such  things, 
one  must  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing  and  do 
as  the  others  do. 

We  went  also  to  the  fair  at  Charenton,  which 
was  somewhat  different  in  character.  There  were 
not  so  many  amusements  as  there  had  been  at  Neu- 
illy,  but  there  were  many  very  attractive  things  for 
sale, — many  more  than  there  had  been  at  Neuilly. 
Buttons!  Buttons!  Boxes  and  boxes  of  the  most 
beautiful  buttons  were  for  sale.  Buttons  for  every 
sort  of  garment,  for  every  possible  occasion,  for 
underwear,  for  dresses,  for  coats, — for  everything 
and  all  times! 

There  were  remnants  and  scraps  of  the  most  ex- 
quisite silks  and  velvets;  remnants  and  wee  bits  of 
hand-made  laces;  remnants  of  all  kinds  (this  I  saw 
only  at  the  Charenton  Fair)  which  are  purchased 
of  the  great  dressmaking  and  millinery  establish- 
ments of  Paris  by  these  "Fair"  folks,  and  then  sold 
at  the  different  Fairs.  Can  any  woman  resist  boxes 
and  boxes  of  scraps  of  the  most  gorgeous  silks  and 
velvets?  I  doubt  it.  I  purchased  most  beautifully 
bejeweled  buttons,  and  then  had  them  fashioned  into 
hatpins  and  belt-buckles,  for  gifts  to  friends  as  well 
as  for  my  own  use.  They  were  beautiful,  and  cost 
only  a  few  pennies. 

Out  of  the  scraps  I  purchased  there  was  construct- 
ed    a     kimono, — a     "crazy-patch"     creation, — that 


328  PARIS 

would  have  made  any  Chinaman  that  ever  came  from 
Cathay  turn  green  with  envy:  all  it  lacked  was  the 
sacred  dragon.  For  days  we  would  spend  our  time 
back  there,  under  that  vine-covered  pergola,  design- 
ing and  executing  this  masterpiece, — this  "work  of 
art." 

A  laundress  who  came  to  do  the  family  washing 
every  two  weeks,  at  once  caught  the  fever.  She 
had  never  seen  such  a  piece  of  work  before  (as  this 
form  of  fancy  work  does  not  seem  to  be  known  in 
Paris),  and  determined  at  once  to  make  one  for 
each  of  her  three  little  daughters. 

This  laundress  was  a  marvel!  She  had  three  lit- 
tle daughters, — all  sweet-looking  and  pretty, — whom 
she  always  kept  immaculate  and  dressed  with  good 
taste  and  judgment.  She  supplied  their  every  need 
so  far  as  she  was  able;  she  was  an  excellent  mother, 
who  had  provided  her  little  ones  with  everything 
but  a  name.  However,  she  did  not  seem  to  mind  that 
at  all,  and  did  laundry  work  to  support  them.  All 
the  neighbors  seemed  to  take  a  sympathetic  interest 
in  her,  and  employed  her  whenever  it  was  possible 
to  do  so;  turned  over  to  her  their  cast-off  clothing, 
and  provided  her  with  considerable  food  and  vari- 
ous other  things.  Every  one  seemed  to  have  an  in- 
terest in  her  and  in  her  little  family,  and  I  never 
heard  any  talk  of  "race  suicide"  in  her  presence. 
There  are  many  interesting  sides  to  the  question. 

To  children,  French  law  has  ever  shown  tenderness.  Thus,  chil- 
dren born  out  of  wedlock  are  naturalized  by  the  subsequent  mar- 
riage of  parents,  and  recent  legislation  (March,  1896)  has  favored 
them   in   matter  of   property. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  329 

Anteriorally,  provided  that  an  illegitimate  child  had  been  legally 
acknowledged  by  either  parent,  the  law  awarded  him  a  third 
of  what  would   have   been   his  portion   but  for  the  bar  sinister. 

By  a  recent  law  this  share  is  now  the  half  of  what  would  ac- 
crue to  a  legitimate  son  or  daughter,  two-thirds,  if  no  brothers  or 
sisters  exist  born  in  wedlock,  and  the  entire  parental  fortune  falls 
to  him  in  case  of  no  direct  descendants  remaining. 

We  also  went  to  the  races,  to  see  what  could  be 
seen  there.  On  the  Sunday  of  the  Grand  Prix  we 
went  to  Longchamps  to  see  the  parade  of  fashion 
and  beautiful  women,  as  well  as  to  see  the  races. 
There  were  thousands  and  thousands  of  people 
there, — all  most  beautifully  appareled.  One  could 
scarcely  believe  that  so  much  wealth  and  beauty 
could  be  gathered  together  in  one  place. 

There  are  a  number  of  "stands"  called  "Trib- 
unes," the  central  one  of  which  is  called  the  "Pavil- 
ion." Here  the  judges  and  race  authorities  take 
their  places.  I  do  not  know  whether  we  were  in  the 
"Grand  Stand"  or  not;  or  whether,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  there  is  such  a  thing  in  France.  One  seemed 
about  the  same  as  the  other. 

There  is  a  large  apartment  for  refreshments,  a 
salon  for  ladies;  and  there  are  magnificent  views 
to  be  had  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  as  well  as  of 
the  race  tracks.  Everybody  became  quite  excited, 
but  the  sporting  individual  did  not  rave  in  quite 
such  aggressive  apparel  as  do  some  of  our  own  at 
the  county  fairs. 

No  matter  where  one  turned,  there  were  to  be  seen 
long  lines  of  carriages, — vehicles  of  every  descrip- 
tion,— filled  with  elegantly-gowned  women  and  well- 


330  PARIS 

groomed  men;  all  headed  for  Longchamps.  One 
had  to  fall  into  line,  and  move  more  and  more  slow- 
ly, the  nearer  to  the  Bois  he  arrived.  There  it  was 
next  to  impossible  to  move. 

I  was  told  that  for  many  days  before  the  great 
event,  every  carriage  in  Paris  had  been  engaged. 

There  were  six  races  run  that  day,  and  I  presume 
the  usual  amount  of  spare  cash  changed  hands. 

The  French  "Fourth  of  July"  is  another  event  of 
interest.  This  comes  on  the  14th  of  July,  however. 
We  went  out  in  the  afternoon,  just  to  drive  about  the 
streets,  see  the  crowds  of  people,  and  enjoy  the  fes- 
tive decorations. 

The  French  express  their  patriotic  exuberance  in 
a  manner  somewhat  different  from  our  own.  The 
firecracker  and  other  ear-splitting  devices  have  not 
been  assiduously  cultivated.  Instead,  they  dance. 
They  erect  dancing  pavilions  in  the  middle  of  the 
streets,  one  at  about  every  two  or  three  blocks,  deco- 
rate them  with  lanterns,  hire  fiddlers,  and  from  the 
1 2th  to  the  14th  of  July  all  the  neighborhood  comes 
out  and  dances  whenever  the  fancy  happens  to  strike 
it. 

I  had  always  heard  and  understood  that  it  was 
simply  the  "common"  people  who  entered  into  this 
public  celebration — servants,  porters,  and  persons  of 
that  class, — but  this  is  not  true.  I  found  that  all  the 
people  in  the  neighborhood  of  pavilions  come  out, 
old  as  well  as  young,  and  indulge  in  a  waltz  or  two 
in  order  to  show  their  patriotism,  and,  incidentally, 
have  a  lot  of  fun.     I  saw  no  rowdyism  at  any  time. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  331 

The  streets  are  decorated  with  paper  lanterns  of 
gay  colors  suspended  in  the  trees,  which,  when  light- 
ed at  night,  make  a  fairylike  scene  of  the  whole  city; 
the  long  shadowy  streets  being  outlined  with  these 
rows  of  little  fiery  eyes  shining  out  from  their  green 
retreats,  casting  vivid  splotches  of  colored  light 
down  through  the  ghostly  shadows  of  black  trees  on 
to  the  spectators  that  fill  every  seat  and  chair  along 
the  sidewalks. 

Many  private  houses  are  also  made  gay  by  lighted 
lanterns  hung  over  the  doorways  and  in  the  win- 
dows. Out  on  the  Avenue  Kleber,  I  saw  a  flat- 
roofed  house  outlined  with  red  and  yellow  lanterns. 
The  music  twiddles  and  twaddles  far  into  the  night, 
no  one  seeming  to  mind  it  in  the  least. 

We,  too,  took  our  turn,  and  waltzed  one  evening 
in  a  pavilion  erected  in  front  of  the  church  at  Char- 
enton,  in  company  with  all  our  neighbors,  and  then 
afterward  got  into  the  machine  and  went  into  town 
to  see  the  fireworks.  There  was  a  mighty  display 
in  front  of  the  Mint,  under  Government  direction 
(individuals  do  not  indulge  in  pyrotechnical  displays 
in  this  exceedingly  well-regulated  town). 

Here  there  were  vast  crowds,  seething  and  surg- 
ing in  every  direction.  After  the  fireworks  were 
concluded,  there  was  a  grand  rush, — a  stampede, — 
for  the  cafes.  Every  chair  on  the  boulevards  was 
soon  filled,  and  every  one  was  talking  of  the  wonder- 
ful, magnificent  display.  So  far  as  the  actual  dis- 
play was  concerned,  it  could  not  be  compared  to  those 
with  which  every  American  is  familiar,  but  I  did  not 


332  PARIS 

tell  my  companions  so.  I  applauded  as  vociferously 
as  they  did,  and  said  not  a  word.  Such  a  statement 
would  not  have  been  believed  if  I  had  made  it. 

We  sat  there  until  two  in  the  morning.  Every- 
body was  still  remaining;  but  we  felt  that  we  had 
celebrated  sufficiently  and  went  home,  only  to  find 
that  dancing  was  still  in  full  swing  at  Charenton. 

To  watch  a  French  crowd  is  a  pleasure:  all 
treat  one  another  with  such  courtesy.  Even  the  for- 
eigner is  never  treated  in  a  discourteous  manner.  No 
matter  how  laughable  our  mistakes,  they  smile  never 
a  smile,  nor  say  a  word  of  ridicule,  but  will  even 
help  out  by  a  word  or  gesture.  This  is  very  pleas- 
ant, for  we  must  be  amusing  at  times.  There  are 
coarse  natures  in  France  as  well  as  in  every  other 
country,  one  must  admit;  but  speaking  of  the  people 
in  a  general  way,  one  could  not  say  that  they  were 
other  than  courteous. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

MUSEE  CARNAVALET 

After  various  experiences,  I  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  it  is  really  much  better  to  go  to  the  art  gal- 
leries and  museums  alone.  It  may  be  a  little  lonely, 
perhaps,  but  it  is  better,  if  one  wants  to  see  these 
things  to  his  own  satisfaction.  In  order  to  really 
get  in  touch  with  such  things,  I  must,  in  fact,  be 
alone ;  then  I  can  form  my  impressions  and  arrange 
my  own  ideas.  When  with  others  there  is  always  so 
much  to  distract.  We  talk  constantly,  and  conse- 
quently are  no  wiser  on  coming  away  than  on  enter- 
ing. If  one  wants  to  spend  an  hour  in  the  examina- 
tion of  a  single  object,  alone  he  can  do  so;  if  one 
wants  to  simply  wander  about,  casting  a  glance  at 
this,  or  at  that,  he  is  free  to  indulge  his  fancy.  In 
company,  one  must,  more  or  less,  defer  to  another. 

I  went  to  the  Louvre  in  company  with  my  hostess 
upon  two  or  three  different  occasions,  and  found  it 
almost  impossible  to  look  at  anything.  She  would 
walk,  walk,  walk, — never  stopping  long  enough  to 
permit  me  to  look  at  a  thing. 

"Oh,  that?*'  she  would  say,  "That's  nothing! 
Let's " 

And  on  we  would  go.     She  was  so  accustomed  to 

333 


334  PARIS 

all  these  beautiful  things  that  she  could  not  compre- 
hend that  I  was  not, — that  I  was  still  a  stranger  to 
these  magnificent  paintings  and  objects  of  art. 

Upon  another  occasion,  while  discussing  a  paint- 
ing that  for  some  reason  was  displeasing  to  me,  my 
companion  (a  woman  whose  nationality  was  other 
than  French,  and  whose  acquaintance  I  had  made  in 
Paris)  told  me  that  I  should  never  try  to  criticize 
a  painting;  that  Americans  knew  how  to  build  bridges 
and  railroads,  and  construct  machinery,  perhaps,  but 
that  they  knew  nothing  of  art,  and  a  few  more  re- 
marks to  the  same  effect.  I  didn't  know  whether  to 
be  amused  or  vexed,  and  so  I  laughed;  but  after  that 
I  visited  the  galleries  alone.  I  could  thereby  see 
more  and  could  gain  a  better  understanding  of  what 
I  saw.  Baedeker,  Murray,  Allen,  Hare,  and  others 
are  better  guides  than  friends  or  acquaintances, — 
they  never  talk  back  at  you,  to  exasperate  instead  of 
enlighten.  If  one  has  an  abundance  of  time  at  his 
disposal,  a  lonely  visit  to  a  gallery  with  one  of  these 
silent  guides,  could  not  well  be  improved  upon. 

Not  long  afterward  I  had  a  splendid  chance  to  get 
even  with  that  woman.  Prowling  about  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  Avenue  de  Neuilly  one  day,  we  came 
to  the  Rond-Point  d'Inkermann,  and  stopped  to  look 
at  the  Church  of  Saint  Pierre,  when  I  happened  to 
espy  a  large  statue  in  bronze  of  M.  Perronet,  the 
man  who  built  the  Pont  de  Neuilly,  the  Pont  de  la 
Concorde,  and  numbers  of  other  beautiful  and  noted 
bridges,  and  I  asked  her  if  she  saw  that  splendid 
monument  over  there. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  335 

"Yes,  indeed!"  she  replied.  "What  a  splendid 
thing  it  is!" 

"Well,"  said  the  benighted  American,  "that  is 
the  kind  of  monument  that  the  artistic  French  have 
erected  in  honor  of  a  man  who  knew  how  to  build 
bridges." 

And  then  I  quickly  began  to  talk  of  other  things, 
but  wondered  whether  any  woman  could  resist  the 
temptation  and  the  satisfaction  of  hitting  an  enemy 
when  the  enemy  can't  hit  back  at  her.  Paris  is 
filled  with  these  beautiful  monuments  to  the  memory 
of  men  who  have  accomplished  things. 

One  beautiful  bright  morning, — just  the  right 
morning  for  visiting  a  gallery, — I  hied  me  to  the 
Musee  Carnavalet,  the  one-time  residence  of  that 
brilliant  woman,  Mme.  de  Sevigne.  It  is  filled  with 
relics  of  the  revolution,  Roman  antiquities,  memo- 
rials, and  such  things,  and  Madame's  kitchen  is  filled 
with  sarcophagi. 

"Tthink  of  all  the  objects  to  be  seen  in  this  Museum 
the  models  of  buildings  interest  me  most.  From 
them  one  can  learn  something  of  how  buildings  of 
historical  interest, — now  demolished, — really  look- 
ed. 

Here  is  a  good-sized  model  of  the  Bastille  made 
of  a  stone  actually  taken  from  the  building  itself, 
as  are  also  a  lot  of  grewsome  relics  of  various  kinds 
connected  with  this  odious  prison  so  filled  with  hor- 
rible memories.  It  gives  one  a  good  idea  of  how 
it  really  appeared  before  it  was  destroyed  by  an  en- 


336  PARIS 

raged  and  maddened  people,  and  is  a  grim  reminder 
of  what  existed  in  the  "good  old  days." 

But  look  at  the  model  as  long  as  I  will,  I  cannot 
reconstruct  the  Bastille  out  there  on  the  Place  de  la 
Bastille;  I  cannot  imagine  how  it  would  look  there, 
instead  of  the  beautiful  Colonne  de  Juillet  (Column 
of  July)  crowned  with  its  "gilded  bronze  Genius  of 
Liberty  standing  on  a  Globe,  holding  in  one  hand  the 
torch  of  Civilization,  and  in  the  other,  the  broken 
chains  of  Slavery,"  while  at  its  base,  in  huge  vaults 
especially  constructed,  repose  the  remains  of  many 
of  those  who,  during  the  1830  Revolution,  attempted 
to  sack  the  Louvre.  Nor  can  I  make  the  fine  large 
buildings  on  all  sides  of  its  old  site,  where  the  Col- 
umn now  stands,  look  as  described  by  an  eyewitness 
of  the  scenes  that  were  enacted  during  the  Revolu- 
tion of  '48.  A  letter  written  on  June  29,  1848, 
says : 

There  is  not  one  pane  of  glass  left  whole  from  the  Boulevard  de 
St.  Martin  to  the  Bastille;  indeed,  in  many  houses  you  can  scarcely 
distinguish  where  the  windows  have  been.  They  are  so  confounded 
with  the  breaches  made  by  cannon-balls.  Near  the  Column  of 
July,  where  the  most  violent  cannonade  took  place,  the  fronts  of 
the  houses  are  as  it  were  taken  off;  I  can  only  compare  it  to  a 
stage  decoration  in  which  you  see  the  interior  of  a  house  from 
top  to  bottom. 

One  of  them,  more  completely  destroyed  than  the  others,  and 
which  was  still  smouldering,  had  no  part  standing  but  the  wall, 
on  which  the  looking-glass  remained  unbroken  over  the  chimney- 
piece,  together  with  a  glass  bottle  and  three  prints;  a  little  hearth- 
brush  hung  by  the  fireplace,  and  smoothing-irons  were  on  a  little 
shelf;  everything  else,  doors,  windows,  floors,  staircases,  and  ceil- 
ings had  fallen  into  the  burning  gulf  below,  and  no  one  knew  or 
seemed  to  care  whether  the  inhabitants  had  shared  the  same  fate. 
Traces  of  blood  were  still  visible  everywhere,  though  they  had 
evidently  been  washed.  .,.  . 

The  Rue  St.  Antoine,  up  which  I  went  after  leaving  the  Bas- 


THE  MAGIC   CITY  337 

til le,  contained  seventy-five  barricades  .  .  .  hardly  an  inch  of  wall 
is  free  from  shot;  iron  bars  are  torn  from  sockets;  shutters,  per- 
siennes, and  balconies  are  Utterly  battered  in  or  hang  by  one 
hinge,  swinging  against  the  ruins. 

One  could  scarcely  imagine  such  a  Paris,  when 
looking  at  it  to-day. 

Nearly  all  the  rooms  in  which  Madame  de 
Sevigne  lived  are  most  beautifully  decorated  with 
panelings  and  carved  wood,  which  is  said  to  have 
been  taken  from  famous  old  mansions  in  Paris. 
Here,  too,  are  some  splendid  chimney-pieces,  richly 
carved  and  decorated. 

Madam  de  Sevigne's  apartment  on  the  first  floor,  is  hardly  al- 
tered, and  her  bedroom  and  salon  have  been  especially  kept  invio- 
late. The  admirable  mouldings,  the  curious  mirrors,  the  old-fash- 
ioned lustre,  remain  as  she  left  them,  when  she  went  to  her 
daughter  at  Grignan  to  die. 

In  this  salon,  and  in  the  wide  corridor  leading  to  it,  both  now 
so  silent  and  pensive,  she  received  all  the  men  of  her  day  worth 
receiving;  and  it  is  here  alone  that  we  breathe  the  very  atmos- 
phere of  this  incomparable  creature. 

I  found  an  interest  in  looking  at  the  picture  of 
Marie  Antoinette  that  was  taken  while  she  was  a 
prisoner  in  the  Conciergerie;  and  one  of  Charlotte 
Corday,  taken  during  her  trial  (a  nice  time,  indeed, 
to  take  pictures  of  people!).  It  must  have  been 
taken  on  a  Wednesday,  the  day  of  her  execution,  for 
Carlisle  says: 

On  Wednesday  morning,  the  thronged  Palais  de  Justice  and 
Revolutionary  Tribunal  can  see  her  face;  beautiful  and  calm;  she 
dates  it  "fourth  day  of  the  Preparation  of  Peace."  A  strange 
murmur  ran  through  the  Hall  at  sight  of  her;  you  could  not  say 
of  what  character.  Tinville  has  his  indictments  and  tape-papers; 
the  cutler  of  the  Palais  Royal  will  testify  that  he  sold  her  the 
sheath-knife.     "All   these   details  are   needless,"   interrupted   Char- 


338  PARIS 

lotte;  "It  is  I  that  killed  Marat."  By  whose  instigation?  "By  no 
one's."  What  tempted  you,  then?  "His  crimes.  I  killed  the  man," 
added  she,  raising  her  voice  extremely  as  they  went  on  with  their 
questions,  "I  killed  one  man  to  save  a  hundred  thousand;  a  vil- 
lain to  save  innocents;  a  savage  wild-beast  to  give  repose  to  my 
country!"  .  .  .  The  public  gazes  astonished;  the  hasty  limners 
sketch  her  features,  Charlotte  not  disapproving;  the  men  of  the 
law  proceed  with  their  formalities.  The  doom  is  death  as  a  mur- 
deress. 

And  this  is  the  picture  we  now  may  look  at,  but  its 
sight  calls  up  the  horrible  and  hideous  things  of 
that  mighty  revolution. 

There  are  many,  many  things,  however,  that  one 
may  overlook,  with  impunity,  if  he  does  not  care  for 
the  grewsome.  For  instance,  a  copy  of  the  Constitu- 
tion of  1793,  bound  in  human  skin!  Bah!  and  the 
amazing  part  of  it  is  that  just  above  it  hangs  a 
"Table  of  the  Rights  of  Man !"  One  right,  I  should 
think,  might  be  the  right  not  to  have  his  skin  made 
into  book-bindings.  I  have  read  somewhere  that 
there  was  a  tannery  established  at  this  time,  for 
the  tanning  of  human  skin,  and  that  they  even  made 
playing-cards  of  it.     Times  have  changed  since  then. 

In  another  room  is  the  armchair  in  which  died 
that  magnificent  Frenchman,  Voltaire.  Such  objects 
one  may  contemplate  without  repugnance. 

Another  thing  that  interested  as  well  as  amused 
me,  was  a  collection  of  "elaborately-dressed  wax 
dolls  of  the  time  of  Louis  XV,  including  a  figure  of 
Voltaire."  Also,  the  death  mask  of  Gustave  Flau- 
bert and  that  of  Michelet  the  historian.  It  seems 
too  bad  to  be  obliged  to  meet  these  famous  sons  of 
the  earth,  for  the  first  time,  in  this  way,  but  alas! 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  339 

It  is  the  only  way  now.  Death  masks  and  wax  dolls ! 
However,  it  is  fortunate  that  we  have  even  these, 
to  help  us  form  some  idea  of  what  they  looked  like 
in  life. 

There  is  a  certain  pensiveness  about  all  these 
places, — these  places  that  live  on  and  on  because  of 
their  connection  with  historical  personages,  or  great 
events;  certain  chill  pervades  them,  and  there  is  al- 
ways that  feeling  that  we  should  tiptoe  and  speak  in 
whispers. 

All  about  in  this  neighborhood  are  lovely  little 
old  streets  filled  with  the  same  style  of  narrow- 
shouldered,  slant-eyed  mansions  of  a  bygone  day. 
These  old  streets  of  Paris  are  so  much  more  ap- 
pealing to  me  personally  than  are  the  wide  open 
Boulevards.  Perhaps  it  is  because  their  days  are 
numbered,  and  in  a  short  time  they  will  be  only  a 
memory.  Soon,  I  understand,  they  will  be  torn 
away,  and  their  old  mansions  carted  away  to  make 
room  for  the  new  streets  now  contemplated. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE  SALON.      CHURCH  OF  SAINT  VINCENT  DE  PAUL. 
NATIONAL  LIBRARY 

The  Salon  had  an  attraction  for  me, — an  attrac- 
tion sufficient  to  draw  me  there  many  times.  It  is 
a  magnificent  opportunity  in  life  to  have  the  privilege 
of  gazing  at  the  works  of  the  old  masters  hung  up 
there  in  the  Louvre,  but  it  is  a  matter  of  keen  in- 
terest to  be  able  to  look  on  and  see  what  is  being 
done  and  accomplished  in  our  own  day:  to  look  at 
the  miles  and  miles  of  paintings  and  sculptures,  the 
work  of  the  young  men  and  women  living  and  work- 
ing to-day,  bringing  down  from  the  clouds  of  im- 
agination these  beautiful,  tangible  creations  that 
are  no  longer  mere  dreams.  We  cannot  tell  what 
"Old  Master"  we  brush  up  against  every  day  in 
our  long  rambles  through  the  great  spaces.  Some 
of  these  exhibitors  are  going  to  be  "Old  Masters" 
some  time.     But  who  can  tell  which  ones? 

At  the  same  time,  there  is  something  pathetic 
about  these  annual  exhibitions:  the  high  hopes,  the 
ambitions  and  dreams  of  future  greatness  that  seem 
to  fill  the  atmosphere.  And  how  few,  compara- 
tively, reach  the  goal !  However,  the  joy  and  su- 
preme happiness  that  exist  in  the  creation  of  these 

340 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  341 

wonders  seems  to  be  payment  sufficient,  for  the 
Salon  never  lacks  its  quota  of  contributions  to  its 
annual  show;  and  day  after  day,  vast  throngs  of 
visitors  pay  their  respects  to  the  exhibitions  of  the 
Grand  Palais. 

John  Galsworthy,  writing  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly, 
has  said: 

And  in  what  sort  of  age,  I  thought,  are  artists  living  now? 
Are  conditions  favorable?  Life  is  very  multiple;  "movements" 
are  very  many;  interests  in  "facts"  is  very  great;  "news"  batters 
at  our  brains;  the  limelight  is  terribly  turned  on;  and  all  this 
is  adverse  to  the  ar'is\  Yet  leisure  is  abundant,  the  facilities 
for  siudy  great;  liberty  is  respected.  But,  far  exceeding  all  other 
reasons,  there  is  one  great  reason  why  in  this  age  of  ours,  art,  it 
seems,  must  flourish.  For,  just  as  cross-breeding — if  it  be  not  too 
violent — often  gives  an  extra  vitality  to  the  off-spring,  so  does 
cross-breeding  of  philosophies  make  for  vitality  in  art. 

Historians,  looking  back  from  the  far  future,  may  record  this 
age  as  the  Third  Renaissance.  We  who  are  lost  in  it,  working 
or  looking  on,  can  neither  tell  what  we  are  doing,  nor  where 
standing;  but  we  cannot  help  observing  that,  just  as  in  the  Greek 
Renaissance,  worn-out  pagan  orthodoxy  was  penetrated  by  new 
philosophy;  jus^  as,  in  the  Italian  Renaissance,  pagan  philosophy, 
reasserting  itself,  fertilized  again  an  already  too-inbred  Christian 
creed;  so  now,  orthodoxy  fertilized  by  science  is  producing  a 
fresh  and  fuller  conception  of  life — a  love  of  perfection,  not  for 
hope  of  reward,  not  for  fear  of  punishment,  but  for  perfection's 
sake. 

Slowly,  under  our  feet,  beneath  our  consciousness,  is  forming 
that  new  philosophy,  and  it  is  in  times  of  new  philosophies  that 
art,  itself  in  essence  always  a  discovery,  must  flourish.  Those 
whose  sacred  suns  and  moons  are  ever  in  the  past,  tell  us  that 
our  age  is  going  to  the  dogs;  and  it  is  true  that  we  are  in  con- 
fusion. The  waters  are  broken,  and  every  nerve  and  sinew  of 
the  artist  is  strained  to  discover  his  own  safety.  It  is  an  age 
of  stir  and  change,  a  season  of  new  wine  and  old  bottles.  Yet, 
assuredly,  in  spite  of  breakages  and  waste,  a  wine  worth  the 
drinking  is   all   the  time  being  made. 

That  the  work  of  the  artists  of  our  own  time  is 
of  no  mean  order,  one  has  only  to  go  and  look  at 


342  PARIS 

the  magnificent  frescoes  of  Flandrin  in  the  Church 
of  Saint  Vincent  de  Paul,  shining  along  the  walls  of 
the  nave  and  choir,  in  their  golden  background. 
These  are  done  in  the  style  of  the  old  Italian  works, 
and  "are  among  the  noblest  achievements  of  modern 
French  art." 

The  Paris  Illustre  de  Joanne  says : 

This  immense  composition,  painted  on  a  ground  of  gold,  repre- 
sents two  long  processions  of  Christians  of  both  sexes,  from  the 
humblest  believers  up  to  the  Evangelists  and  the  doctors,  extends 
along  the  two  sides  of  the  building  in  all  the  majestic  simplicity 
of  the  Greek  manner.  It  is  a  picforial  rendering  of  the  idea,  "The 
Gospel  preached  to  the  nations,  opens  to  them  the  path  to  heaven." 

Picot,  the  painter  of  the  beautiful  fresco  in  the 
dome  of  the  choir,  might  also  be  termed  of  our  own 
time,  as  he  did  not  die  until  1868, — not  so  very 
long  ago.  This  splendid  work  represents  the  Savi- 
our sitting  on  a  throne,  and  the  Saint  for  whom 
the  church  is  named,  bringing  and  presenting  a  lot 
of  little  children  to  him  as  he  sits  there,  looking  so 
kindly  at  them. 

These  frescoes,  and  the  splendid  terraced  steps 
leading  up  to  the  entrance,  make  of  Saint  Vincent 
de  Paul  one  of  the  noteworthy  things  to  be  seen  in 
Paris. 

Among  the  "noteworthy"  things  to  be  seen  in 
Paris,  I  should  certainly  include  the  National  Li- 
brary in  the  Rue  Richelieu.  It  has  been  said  that 
the  average  human  being  has  no  realization  of  the 
significance  of  numbers  beyond  about  the  one-thou- 
sand mark;  that  after  one-thousand,  if  one  uses  the 
term  of  millions,  he  might  just  as  well  use  billions, 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  343 

as  then  it  is  only  a  matter  of  figures  that  carry  no 
realization  of  their  size  at  all.  So,  if  we  are  told 
that  this  library  contains  2,700,000  books,  150,000 
volumes  of  manuscript,  about  15,000  volumes  and 
portfolios  of  engravings,  and  300,000  maps  and 
charts  we  may  be  pardoned  if  we  do  not  quite  grasp 
the  magnitude  of  the  numbers.  However,  we  can 
perhaps  readily  understand  that  Paris  owns  a  good- 
ly-sized library;  and  this  is  but  one  of  the  several 
great  collections  of  books  and  manuscripts  to  be 
found  in  this  magnificent  city  on  the  Seine. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

SAINT   DENIS.       FONTAINEBLEAU 

We  motored  out  to  Saint  Denis  one  day,  and  there 
I  encountered  another  one  of  those  places  that  I 
did  not  like;  for  I  did  not  like  this  great,  beautiful 
cathedral  of  Saint  Denis.  There  was  something 
lacking  in  its  appeal  to  my  fancy.  I  do  not  know 
what  it  was,  but  I  felt  uncomfortable  and  ill  at  ease 
in  its  great  gray  enclosure. 

The  place  is  a  graveyard, — a  perfect  forest  of 
tombs  and  monuments, — and  its  vastness  and  gloom 
somewhat  chills  one.  Here  are  the  tombs  of 
Blanche  and  Jean,  the  children  of  the  good  Saint 
Louis,  which  Mr.  Baedeker  pronounces  as  "Interest- 
ing works  in  embossed  and  enameled  copper." 

Some  of  the  statues  are  elongated  editions  of 
Dante,  and  give  one  the  shivers;  but  they  all  repre- 
sent kings, — earthly  kings,  physical  kings,  wicked 
kings,  good  kings,  who,  as  soon  as  they  have  been 
dead  long  enough,  are  "elongated,"  hung  up  against 
a  wall,  and  turned  into  saints,  or  something  quite  as 
disturbing.  Dead,  they  at  once  loose  their  kingly  ap- 
pearance and  become  mere  sticks  of  pious-looking 
marble.  One  feels  as  though  he  ought  to  burn  candles 
and  say  a  prayer.     They  are  pious  frauds ! 

344 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  345 

However,  we  generally  go  to  visit  the  Church  of 
Saint  Denis  because  it  is  the  burial  place  of  the 
French  Kings,  and  we  must  expect  to  meet  them 
there.  So  far  as  I  personally  am  concerned,  I 
should  prefer  them  as  "kings"  and  not  as  applicants 
for  canonization. 

Even  that  fearsome  woman,  Catherine  de  Medici, 
is  represented  in  a  kneeling  position.  But  she  is  in 
bronze,  not  in  the  flesh.  And  everywhere,  no  mat- 
ter in  what  direction  one  turns,  he  is  confronted  with 
Saint  Denis!  Saint  Denis  with  and  without  his 
head,  seeming  not  at  all  disconcerted  or  dismayed 
by  the  fact  that  he  is  there  in  company  with  Mane 
Antoinette  arrayed  in  a  gorgeous  ball  gown.  Of 
course,  she  is  kneeling  as  if  in  prayer,  but  the  fact 
remains  that  she  is  dressed  for  a  ball.  Poor  Queen ! 
We  forgive  her  the  beautiful  ba\\  dress  when  we 
remember  her  in  the  Temple  and  in  the  Concier- 
gerie!  We  might,  in  all  justice,  write  over  her 
head  in  beautiful  letters  of  white  light: 

"Paid  in  Full." 

Ah,  the  stained  glass!  The  thirty-seven  enormous 
windows  of  this  great  graveyard-cathedral  are  beau- 
tiful !  The  light  streams  in  through  the  wonderful 
stained  glass,  pouring  down  a  flood  of  crimson,  blue, 
green,  and  gold  gleams  across  the  gray  expanse  of 
the  floor  below,  and  casting  strange  shadows  upon 
the  elongated  Dantes  along  the  walls. 

I  wandered  about  the  nave  and  aisles,  and  through 
the  "dim  twilight  of  the  vestibule,"  but  felt  anxious 
and  uneasy;  it  was  not  a  place  in  which  one  wanted 


346  PARIS 

to  sit  and  dream.  The  magnificence  of  the  kings 
was  perhaps  too  much  for  the  simple  republican. 
The  exteriorization  of  the  soul  of  Saint  Denis  is 
marble  and  stone,  and  that  is  hard  and  cold. 

A  trip  to  Fontainebleau  will  dispel  the  gloom,  for 
there  the  gods  are  not  dead, — only  sleeping  a  little 
between  whiles.  Their  footprints  are  everywhere; 
we  may  even  say  a  prayer  to  them,  if  we  like. 

One  ideal  day,  when  the  sun  was  flooding  the 
whole  country  with  a  magical  beauty  of  its  own,  we 
hitched  up  the  machine  and  set  out  for  a  spin  to  this 
beautiful  Forest  of  Fontainebleau  in  company  with 
the  wife  and  daughters  of  Monsieur  le  Directeur, 
for  whom  we  stopped  on  the  way. 

There  is  no  front  entrance  to  their  house.  It 
stands  even  with  the  street  line.  At  one  side  is  a 
high  black  iron  gateway,  or  entrance,  with  a  bell. 

Monsieur  O rang  the  bell,   which  gave   back 

only  a  tinkle,  but  in  a  moment,  an  old,  old  man 
opened  the  gate,  his  brown,  wrinkled  face  creased 
with  smiles  which  expressed  the  most  friendly  of 
greetings.     We  got  out  and  went  into  the  house. 

At  one  side  of  the  huge,  gray-stone  mansion  was 
the  house  entrance, — a  wide,  black  doorway;  and 
beyond  the  iron  gateway,  running  parallel  with  the 
mansion,  was  a  wide  courtyard  filled  with  flowers  and 
graveled  walks  and  in  nearly  all  of  the  windows  fac- 
ing this  courtyard  were  boxes  and  vases  of  gerani- 
ums.    It  was  an  ideal  place  for  an  idle  day. 

The  greetings  and  salutations,  interspersed  with 
kisses  on  each  cheek,  were  soon  over,  and  in  a  short 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  347 

time  we  were  out  of  Paris,  on  to  the  white  sandy 
roadway  leading  to  Fontainebleau.  It  was  some 
distance, — about  thirty-five  miles,  I  think, — but  every 
inch  of  the  way  was  filled  with  interest  to  me.  It 
was  difficult  for  me  to  keep  my  mind  long  enough 
from  what  I  was  so  intently  observing  to  join  very 
frequently  in  the  conversation  of  my  chattering  com- 
panions. It  was  all  new  to  me,  but  an  old  story  to 
them. 

We  passed  little  villages  that  looked  as  though 
they  had  been  standing  there  for  centuries,  and  once 
in  a  while,  in  the  hazy  distance,  a  lone  church  be- 
hind some  obstruction  of  trees  or  a  slight  elevation, 
would  betray  its  presence  by  pointing  a  black  cross, 
or  a  small  spire,  to  the  shining  heavens. 

One  does  not  see  women  and  children  and  young 
girls  on  the  public  highways  here  as  we  do  in  Amer- 
ica. The  very  few  we  did  meet  were  in  carriages  of 
various  sorts,  except  the  peasants.  Even  these  were 
met  only  at  long  intervals.  The  roads  in  some  di- 
rections from  Paris  seem  very  quiet  and  lonely, 
while  in  other  directions,  they  seem  to  be  filled  with, 
hurry  and  bustle — entirely  different  from  the  quiet 
ones.  Just  what  the  reason  is,  I  do  not  know.  The 
road  to  Fontainebleau  is  one  of  the  quiet,  tranquil 
roads. 

I  do  not  wonder  that  artists  flock  here  by  the 
hundreds.  It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  a  more 
serene  or  beautiful  spot,  although  the  "spot"  is  of 
very  considerable  dimensions;  Mr.  Baedeker  says 
the  forest  is  some  fifty-six  miles  in  circumference. 


348  PARIS 

Beautiful,  shady  walks  and  drives  intersect  the 
forest  in  all  directions.  There  are  hills  and  vales 
and  caverns  and  huge  rocks. 

We  rode  for  several  hours,  and  at  noon  had  din- 
ner in  a  quaint  old  restaurant,  far  back  in  the  forest. 

There  are  all  kinds  of  restaurants  and  cafes  scat- 
tered at  intervals  throughout  the  woods,  and  one 
need  not  to  travel  very  far  before  he  will  come  upon 
an  eating-place  of  some  kind.  As  the  French  cook- 
ing is  always  tasty,  this  all  adds  very  materially  to 
the  enjoyment  of  a  trip  through  the  forest. 

There  are  places,  too,  where  they  sell  all  kinds  of 
curios  made  from  the  wood  of  the  forest  trees:  salad 
sets,  consisting  of  a  wooden  spoon  of  generous  pro- 
portions and  a  huge  fork;  rosaries;  napkin-rings,  and 
the  usual  assortment  of  such  things.  And  we  all 
buy  them,  joyfully  and  gleefully,  and  treasure  them 
as  something  of  almost  priceless  worth. 

We  did  not  spend  very  much  time  at  the  Palace 
of  Fontainebleau, — only  caught  a  glimpse  of  it  at 
that  time.  It  was  at  a  later  date,  that  I  went  alone. 
Then  I  had  the  opportunity  to  see  what  I  wanted 
to  see  most. 

Sentiment, — one  of  the  most  enduring  things  of 
existence,  one  that  will,  in  all  probability,  outlast  the 
admonitions  of  all  the  wiseacres  of  the  world,  even 
including  the  mighty  Ruskin, — runs  riot  when  one 
sees  for  the  first  time,  this  famous  palace  that  epito- 
mizes so  much  of  French  history. 

Sentiment,  sentiment?  Of  course  we  grow  senti- 
mental over  it  all.     Who  can  look  upon  the  grand 


THE  MAGIC  CITY  349 

Cour  des  Adieux,  where  Napoleon  bade  farewell  to 
his  Old  Guard  after  his  abdication,  without  some 
feeling  of  sentiment  in  his  heart?  I,  too,  shed  my 
quota  of  tears,  but,  just  why,  I  do  not  know.  Senti- 
ment, sentiment! 

Here,  again,  the  ghost  of  Marie  Antoinette  walks 
in  those  rooms  which  were  formerly  used  by  her. 

In  Napoleon's  rooms  we  may  still  see  his  campaign 
writing-desk  and  the  historical  table  upon  which  he 
signed  his  abdication,  and  allow  ourselves  to  revel 
in  the  worship  of  heroism  for  a  brief  time.  The 
thought  that  he  is  dead  is  not  a  strong  one.  It  seems 
as  if  he  were  just  sleeping  for  a  little  while  in  one 
of  these  rooms,  and  that  it  is  not  he  who  lies  over 
there  by  the  side  of  the  Seine,  in  the  glorious  Tomb 
of  the  Invalides.  It  is  a  place  in  which  to  speak 
gently,  with  heads  uncovered,  and  we  salute,  with 
the  deepest  respect,  the  melancholy  shadow  of  the 
great  man,  which  seems  still  to  hover  over  all  the 
huge,  silent  place. 


INDEX 


Abelard  and  Heloise,  224 

272 
Absinthe,  25 

American    artist's    family,    An, 
181 

children  in  Paris,  271,  272 

girl's  death,   182 
Amiens,   13-17 

Ancient  thoroughfares,  116,  339 
Antoinette,    Marie,    Prison    of, 

104 
Arc  de  Triomphe,  11,  39,  160 
Arras,    13-17 
Arrival  in  Paris,  20 
Artist  folk,  44 

B 

Babies  and  Waffles,  67 
Ballet,  The,  298 

A  nude  dancer,  299 
Bal   Bulier,  322 
Bashkirtseff,  Marie,  163,  164 

Tomb  of,  164 
Bastille,  Place  de  la,  336 

Model  of,  335 
Baudelaire,  172 
Beaux-Arts,  182 
Belgium,  16,  17 
Bois,  Drive  in,  36 

Day  in,  176 

de  Vincennes,  291 
Bookstalls  along  river,  69 
Bourse,  The,  84 
Boulevards,   Women   in,    100 
Boulevard  Cafes,  23,  24 


Breakfast,    33 

Brussels  to  Paris,  12,  15,   16,   18 
'Bus,   Night   ride   on   top,    160 
Buttes-Chaumont,    221 
Buying  a  Gown,  294 


Cab  Horses,   159 

Cabarets    and    Brasseries,     157, 

321 
Cab  Lights,    159 
Cabmen,   36 

Cafe  l'Enfant  Jesus,  324 
Chalet,  177 
Ciel,  320 
Cascade,  38 
Concerts,   157 
de  la  Paix,  23 
Name  Unknown,  30 
Rouge,  157 
Voltaire,    61 

Terrace   at   Suresnes,    58 
Champs  Elysees,  40,  100,  159 
Characters  of  Fiction,   119,   122, 

123,  244 
Charenton,   283,   291,   331 

Fair,  327 
Charnavalet  Musee,  335 
Chatelet  Theatre,  271 
Chatou,  285 
Church  and  State  Troubles,  262, 

275,   280,  291 
Cluny,  Musee  de,  266 
Cook  Shops,   180 
Conciergerie,  The,  102 
Convent  Girls,  72 


351 


y^ 


INDEX 


Corot,  205 
Corridor  Trains,   15 
Corday,  Charlotte,  337 
Crossing  Keepers,   19 
Chairs  along  Boulevards,  39 

D 

"Dame    aux   Camelias,"   223 

Danton,    128 

De  Amicis,  160 

Delaroche's    "Dead    Girl,"    197, 

204 
Descartes,     Rene,     portrait     of, 

201 
Dinner   in   a   walled-in   garden, 

243 
Double-decked   trams,    44,   45 

steam  trains,  240 

Duval's,    95 


E 


Eating  with  napkins  tucked  un- 
der chins,  22 
Eiffel    Tower    at   night,    45 
Embassadeurs,   Cafe   des,   322 
Evening  in  Paris,  24 


Fairs,   326 

Flandrin,  Frescoes  of,  342 

Francais,  Theatre,   302 

French  family,  88,  284,  287,  289 

funeral,   164 

dress,  269 

home,   289 

My    entrance    into    a,    237, 
240 

"4A  of  July,"  330 

pension,    87 

picnic,    307 
Fortifications,  The,  293 
Fontainebleau,  347,  348 

Palace  of,  349 
Fourth-dimensional    eyes,    75 


G 

Galleries,  People  in,  213 
Galsworthy,   John,   341 
Gobelin,     Tapestry     Establish- 
ment, 217 
Grand   Hotel,   20,  21 

Prix,   329 
Guimet,  Musee,  97 

H 

Holy   Trinite,    Church    of,    140 
Hugo,  Victor,  130 
Humbert,  Madame,  263,   305 
Auction  of  property  of,  305 


lie  de  la  Cite,   101 

Inns,  Lunch  at  ancient,  124 

Queer  old,    124 
Invalides,    Mass    at   church    of, 

3°7 

Streets    and    houses    in   vicin- 
ity.  55 

Wedding  at  church  of,   54 
Irving,      Washington,      House 
where   lived,    126 

J 

Jardin   des  Plantes,    190 

Jaunt,  A  Sunday,  241 

Jean      Valjean,      Street     where 

lived,  123 
Julien   Studio,  A  visit  to,  93 


La  Fayette,  Grave  of,  231,  238 
La  Trinite,  Church  of,   144 
Laundress,  A  marvel,   328 
Le  Neant  Cafe,   312 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,   193,  202 
Liberte,    Egalite    and    Fratern- 

ite,  71 
Louvre  Gallery,  75,  192,  207 

d'Apollon,  210 


INDEX 


353 


Louvre  Gallery — Cont. 

Egyptian  Musee  in,  76,  77,  78 

Greek  Sculpture  in,  86 

Old   Furniture  in,   212 

on  Sundays,  213 

Our  first  glimpse  of,  74 

Seeing,    with    foreigners,    333 

Salle  des  Caryatides,  81,   82 

Luxembourg   Gallery,    168,    171 
Gardens,  Music  in,  67 
Waffle  Booths  in,  67 

M 

Madeleine,  Church  of  La,    138 

Malmaison,  244 

Mannequins,  295 

Mantegna,  195,   196 

Market,   A   Great,    147 

Marley-le-Roi,    245 

Men  Greeting  with  Kisses,    141 

Meudon,   Forest  of,    309 

Michelet,  Home  of,  309 

Monceau,  Pare,   179 

Moliere,   303 

Mona  Lisa,  The,  193 

Montmar're,   Cemetery  of,   222 
Church   of,    181,    220 
Heigh:s  of,  220 
View    from    Heights    of,    181, 
221 

Morgue,   The,   33   , 

Moulin  Rouge,  The,  21,   26,  27, 
322 

Murillo's  "Immaculate   Concep- 
tion," 206 

Musical  Evening,  A,   151 

N 

Napoleon's  Funeral,  48 

room    at    Fontainebleau,    349 
Tomb,  47,  307 

National   Library,   342 

Neuilly,    Fair   at,   326 

New  Surroundings,  My,  87,  283 

Night  Silence,  158 

Nike  of  Samothrace,  83 


Notre  Dame  Cathedral,  109,  in 
View  from  Tower  of,   114 
Flying  buttresses  of,  45,   113 
de-la-Consolation,  265 

Nuns,  Expulsion  of,  279 

Nursemaids,    98 

O 

Opera,  The,   297 
Okey,  T.,   108 


Picardy,  i3 

Pailisrd,   Restaurant,   136 
Palais  Royal,  72,  325 
Pantheon,  The,    128 

Taverne  du,  42 
Paris  greetings,   177 

hospitality,    139 

houses,  99 

by  moonlight,  42,  64 

rain  storm,   84 

s'reets,  20,  24,  42 

s  reet  scenes,  44,   1  s8 

Stroll    Through    Old     Streets 
of,  64,   116,   117,   124 
Pere-Lachaise,  224 
Petit  Palais,   174 
Picpus,   Cemetery  of,  230 
Pierre  de  Coulevain,  22 
Place  de   la   Concorde,   11,  85 
Procope,  Cafe,  61 
Punch  and  Judy,  69 

R 

Races,   The,   327 
Rubens,   in  Louvre,  205 
Ritz,  Afternoon  tea  at,  269 
Rodin,  Studios  of,  309 

in  Luxembourg,  172,  173 
Rossini,   Funeral  of,   144 
Rouge,   Cafe,   158 


Sabots,  18 
Sacre-Coeur,   221 


354 


INDEX 


Sainte   Chapelle,   105 

Clotilde,   Church  of,    141,  222 
Saint  Cloud,  A  day  at,  184 

Denis,  344 

Eugene,   138 

fitienne-du-Mont,    142 

Eustache,    145 

Germain-en-Laye,   310 

Germain,    Terrace    Cafe    at, 
310 

Germain  l'Auxerrois,  215 

Gervais,    137 

Julien-le-Pauvre,    133 

Roch,  280 

Severin,   132 

Sulpice,  141 

Vincent-de-Paul,   342 
Salon,  The,  340 

Salpetriere,   Hospice   de   la,   214 
Sardou,  Home  of,  245 
Seine,  The,  58,  60 

at  sunset,  60 

by   moonlight,   42,    45 

steamers,  45,  57 

"Wash  Ladies"  by  the,  95 
Sevres,  A  Day  at,   185 

Quaint   old   Inn   at,    185 

porcelain  manufactory,   185 
Shop  windows,  72,  274 


Shopping,   274 

Sorbonne,  The,    189 

"Spits,"    180 

Suresnes,    By    steamer    to,    57 

T 

Titian's   "Entombment,"    199 
Traffic  officers,  40 
Trees   along  boulevards,   99 
Trianons,  The,  257 
Tuileries  Gardens,  215 


Venus  de  Milo,  The,  74 
Versailles,   247 
Vincennes,  Bois  de,  291 
Violette  le  Due,  no 
Voltaire,  Funeral  of,    129 

Chair  of,  338 

Statues  of,  303,  338 

W 

Wash  ladies,  95 
Weddings,  292 
Wedding  parties,  242-3 
What  once  existed,  75,  76 
Window  tax,  89 
Working  girls,   71 


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